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“ THERE WAS A MAN SENT FROM GOD WHOSE NAME 
WAS JOHN/' 

NEW TESTAMENT 



GOD’S GOOD MAN 


1 

f 


tt was May-time in England. 

' The last breath of a long winter had blown 

its final farewell across the hills, — the last frost had melted 
from the broad, low-lying fields, relaxing its iron grip from 
the clods of rich, red-brown earth which, now, soft and broken, 
were sprouting thick with the young corn’s tender green. It 
had been a hard, inclement season. Many a time, since 
February onward, had the too-eagerly pushing, buds of trees 
and shrubs been nipped by cruel cold, — many a biting east 
wind had withered the first pale green leaves of the lilac and 
the hawthorn, — and the stormy caprices of a chill northern 
Spring had played havoc with all the dainty woodland 
blossoms that should, according to the ancient ( Shepherd’s 
Calendar’ have been flowering fully with the daffodils and 
primroses. But during the closing days of Aprils ’sudden 
grateful warmth had set in, — Nature, the divine goddess, 
seemed to awaken from long slumber and stretch out her arms 
with a happy smile, — and when May morning dawned on the 
world, it came as a vision of glory, robed in clear sunshine 
and girdled with bluest skies. Birds broke into enraptured 
song, — young almond and apple boughs quivered almost visibly 
every moment into pink and white bloom, — cowslips and blue- 
bells raised their heads from mossy corners in the grass, and 
expressed their innocent thoughts in sweetest odour — and in 
and through all things the glorious thrill, the mysterious joy 
of renewed life, hope and love pulsated from the Creator 
to His responsive creation. 

It was May-time; — a real c old-fashioned 9 English May, 
such as Spenser and Herrick sang of : 

“ When all is yelad 

With blossoms ; the ground with grass, the woodes 

With greene leaves; the bushes with blossoming buddes,” 

i 


2 


God’s Good Man 


and when whatever promise our existence yet holds for us, 
seems far enough away to inspire ambition, yet close enough 
to encourage fair dreams of fulfilment. To experience this 
glamour and witchery of the flowering-time of the year, one 
must, perforce, be in the country. For in the towns, the 
breath of Spring is foetid and feverish, — it arouses sick long- 
ings and weary regrets, but scarcely any positive ecstasy. The 
close, stuffy streets, the swarming people, the high buildings 
and stacks of chimneys which only permit the narrowest 
patches of sky to be visible, the incessant noise and move- 
ment, the self-absorbed crowding and crushing, — all these ' ~ 
things are so many offences to Nature, and are as dead walls of % 
obstacle set against the revivifying and strengthening forces 
with which she endows her freer children of the forest, field 
and mountain. Out on the wild heathery moorland, in the 
heart of the woods, in the deep bosky dells, where the pungent 
scent of moss and pine-boughs fills the air with invigorating 
influences, or by the quiet rivers, flowing peacefully under 
bending willows and past wide osier-beds, where the king- 
fisher swoops down with the sun-ray and the timid moor-hen 
paddles to and from her nest among the reeds, — in such haunts 
as these, the advent of a warm and brilliant May is fraught 
with that tremor of delight which gives birth to beauty, and 
concerning which that ancient and picturesque chronicler. Sir 
Thomas Malory, writes exultantly : “ Like as May moneth 
flourished and flowerth in many gardens, so in likewise let 
every man of worship flourish his heart in this world ! ” 

There was a certain £ man of worship ’ in the world at the 
particular time when this present record of life and love 
begins, who found himself very well-disposed to £ flourish his 
heart’ in the Maloryan manner prescribed, when after many 
dark days of unseasonable cold and general atmospheric 
depression. May at last came in rejoicing. Seated under 
broad apple-boughs, which spread around him like a canopy 
studded with rosy bud-jewels that shone glossy bright against 
the rough dark-brown stems, he surveyed the smiling scenery 
of his own garden with an air of satisfaction that was almost 
boyish, though his years had run well past forty, and he was 
a parson to boot. A gravely sedate demeanour would have 
.seemed the more fitting facial expression for his age and the 
generally accepted nature of his calling, — a kind of deprecatory 
toleration of the sunshine as part of the universal ‘vanity’ o*f 
mundane things, — or a condescending consciousness of the 
bursting apple-blossoms within his reach as a kind of inferior 


God’s Good Man 3 

earthy circumstance which could neither be altered nor 
avoided. 

The Reverend John Walden, however, was one of those 
rarely gifted individuals who cannot assume an aspect which 
is foreign to temperament. He was of a cheerful, even 
sanguine disposition, and his countenance faithfully reflected 
the ordinary bent of his humour. Seeing him at a distance, 
the casual observer would at once have judged him to be 
either an athlete or an ascetic. There was no superfluous 
flesh about him ; he was tall and muscular, with well-knit limbs, 
broad shoulders, and a head altogether lacking in the humble 
or conciliatory ‘ droop ’ which all worldly-wise parsons cultivate 
for the benefit of their rich patrons. It was a distinctively 
proud head, — almost aggressive, — indicative of strong character 
and self-reliance, well-poised on a full throat, and set off by a 
considerable quantity of dark brown hair which was refractory 
in brushing, inclined to uncanonical curls, and plentifully 
dashed with grey. A broad forehead, deeply-set, dark-blue 
eyes, a straight and very prominent nose, a strong jaw and 
obstinate chin, — a firmly moulded mouth, round which many 
a sweet and tender thought had drawn kindly little lines of 
gentle smiling that were scarcely hidden by the silver-brown 
moustache, — such, briefly, was the appearance of one, who 
though only a country clergyman, of whom the great world 
knew nothing, was the living representative of more powerful 
authority to his little ‘cure of souls’ than either the bishop 
of the diocese, or the King in all his majesty. 

He was the sole owner of one of the smallest ‘livings’ in 
England, — an obscure, deeply-hidden, but perfectly unspoilt 
and beautiful relic of mediaeval days, situated in one of the 
loveliest of woodland counties, and known as the village of St. 
Rest, sometimes called ‘ St. Est.’ Until quite lately there had 
been considerable doubt as to the origin of this name, and the 
correct manner of its pronouncement. Some said it should 
be, ‘ St. East,’ because, right across the purple moorland and 
beyond the line of blue hills where the sun rose, there stretched 
the sea, miles away and invisible, it is true, but nevertheless 
asserting its salty savour in every breath of wind that blew 
across the tufted pines. ‘ St. East,’ therefore, said certain 
rural sages, was the real name of the village, because it faced 
the sea towards the east. Others, however, declared that the 
name was derived from the memory of some early Norman 
church on the banks of the peaceful river that wound its slow 


4 


God’s Good Man 


clear length in pellucid silver ribbons of light round and about 
the clover fields and high banks fringed with wild rose and 
snowy thorn, and that it should, therefore, be ‘ St. Rest/ or 
better still, * The Saint’s Rest.’ This latter theory had re- 
cently received strong confirmation by an unexpected witness 
to the past, — as will presently be duly seen and attested. 

But St. Rest, or St. Est, whichever name rightly belonged to 
it, was in itself so insignificant as a ‘ benefice/ that its present 
rector, vicar, priest and patron had bought it for himself, 
through the good offices of a friend, in the days when such 
purchases were possible, and for some ten years had been 
supreme Dictator of his tiny kingdom and limited people. The 
church was his, — especially his, since he had restored it en- 
tirely at his own expense, — the rectory, a lop-sided, half-tim- 
bered house, built in the fifteenth century, was his, — the 
garden, full of flowering shrubs, carelessly planted and allowed 
to flourish at their own wild will, was his, — the ten acres of 
pasture-land that spread in green luxuriance round and about 
his dwelling were his, — and, best of all, the orchard, containing 
some five acres planted with the choicest apples, cherries, 
plums and pears, and bearing against its long, high southern 
wall the finest peaches and nectarines in the county, was his 
also. He had, in fact, everything that the heart of a man, 
especially the heart of a clergyman, could desire, except a 
wife, — and that commodity had been offered to him from many 
quarters in various delicate and diplomatic ways, — only to be 
as delicately and diplomatically rejected. 

And truly there seemed no need for any change in his 
condition. He had gone on so far in life, — ‘ so far ! ’ he 
would occasionally remind himself, with a little smile and 
sigh, — that a more or less solitary habit had, by long fa- 
miliarity, become pleasant. Actual loneliness he had never 
experienced, because it was not in his nature to feel lonely. 
His well-balanced intellect had the brilliant quality of a 
finely-cut diamond, bearing many facets, and reflecting all 
the hues of life in light and colour; thus it quite naturally 
happened that most things, even ordinary and common things, 
interested him. He was a great lover of books, and, to a 
moderate extent, a collector of rare editions; he also had a 
passion for archaeology, wherein he was sustained by a certain 
poetic insight of which he was himself unconscious. The 
ordinary archaeologist is generally a mere Dry-as-Dust, who 
plays with the bones of the past as Shakespeare’s Juliet fancied 


God’s Good Man 


5 


she might play with her forefathers’ joints, and who eschews 
all use of the imaginative instinct as though it were some 
deadly evil. Whereas, it truly needs a very powerful imagina- 
tive lens to peer down into the recesses of bygone civilisations, 
and re-people the ruined haunts of dead men with their shad- 
owy ghosts of learning, art, enterprise, or ambition. 

To use the innermost eyes of his soul in such looking back- 
ward down the stream of Time, as well as in looking forward 
to that c crystal sea 9 of the unknown Future, flowing round the 
Great White Throne whence the river of life proceeds, was a 
favourite mental occupation with John Walden. He loved 
antiquarian research, and all such scientific problems as in- 
volve abstruse study and complex calculation, — but equally he 
loved the simplest flower and the most ordinary village tale of 
Borrow or mirth recounted to him by any one of his unlessoned 
parishioners. He gave himself such change of air and scene 
as he thought he required, by taking long swinging walks 
about the country, and found sufficient relaxation in garden- 
ing, a science in which he displayed considerable skill. No 
one in all the neighbourhood could match his roses, or offer 
anything to compare with the purple and white masses of vio- 
lets which, quite early in January came out under his glass 
frames not only perfect in shape and colour, but full of the 
real < English’ violet fragrance, a benediction of sweetness 
which somehow seems to be entirely withheld from the French 
and Russian blooms. For the rest, he was physically sound 
and morally healthy, and lived, as it were, on the straight line 
from earth to heaven, beginning each day as if it were his first 
life-opportunity, and ending it soberly and with prayer, as 
though it were his last. 

To such a mind and temperament as his, the influences 
of Nature, the sublime laws of the Universe, and the environ- 
ment of existence, must needs move in circles of harmonious 
unity, making loveliness out of commonness, and poetry out 
of prose. The devotee of what is mistakenly called i pleasure/ - 
^enervated or satiated with the sickly moral exhalations of a 
corrupt society, — would be quite at a loss to understand what 
possible enjoyment could be obtained by sitting placidly under 
an apple-tree with a well-thumbed volume of the wisdom of the 
inspired pagan Slave, Epictetus, in the hand, and the eyes 
fixed, not on any printed page, but on a spray of warmly-blush- 
ing almond blossom, where a well-fed thrush, ruffling its softly 
speckled breast, was singing a wild strophe concerning its 


6 


God’s Good Man 


mate, ■which, could human skill have languaged its meaning, 
might have given ideas to a nation’s laureate. Yet John 
Walden found unalloyed happiness in this apparently vague 
and vacant way. There was an acute sense of joy for him in 
the repeated sweetness of the thrush’s warbling, — the light 
breeze, stirring through a great bush of early flowering lilac 
near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave of odour which 
tingled through his sensitive blood like wine, — the sunlight 
was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed noth- 
ing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning’s news- 
papers had not yet come in. With them would probably arrive 
the sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these 
daily morbid records made their appearance. May-day might 
be accepted as God made it and gave it, — a gift unalloyed, 
pure, bright and calm, with not a shadow on its lovely face of 
Spring. The Stoic spirit of Epictetus himself had even 
seemed to join in the general delight of nature, for Walden 
held the book half open at a page whereon these words were 
written : 

“Had we. understanding thereof, would any other thing 
better beseem us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him 
and rehearse His gracious deeds ? These things it were fitting 
every man should sing, and to chant the greatest and divinest 
hymns for this, that He has given us the power to observe and 
consider His works, and a Way wherein to walk. If I were a 
nightingale, I would do after the manner of a nightingale ; if 
a swan, after that of a swan. But now I am a reasoning 
creature, and it behooves me to sing the praise of God ; this is 
my task, and this I do, nor as long as it is granted me, will I 
ever abandon this post. And you, too, I summon to join me in 
the same song.” 

“A wonderfully c advanced’ Christian way of looking at 
life, for a pagan slave of the time of Nero! ” thought Walden, 
as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back 
to the volume in his hand, — “With all our teaching and 
preaching, we can hardly do better. I wonder 

Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic 
lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit 
of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of 
sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box- 
tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to 
the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his 


God’s Good Man 7 

cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and 
from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy. 

“ Come along, — come along ! Don’t stand there. Bob 
Keeley ! ” And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he 
vacated — “ What is it? ” 

Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with 
gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a 
letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger. 

“ From Sir Morton, please sir ! Hurgent, ’e sez.” 

Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bear- 
ing the words e Badsworth Hall ’ stamped in gold at the back 
of the envelope. Opening it, he read: 

“ Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Bever- 
end John Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests 
staying with him at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day 
and hour this week he can make a visit of inspection to the 
church with his friends.” 

A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden’s face. Pres- 
ently he smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the frag- 
ments into one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a 
shred of paper on his lawn or garden paths was an offence 
which neither he nor any of those he employed ever committed. 

“ How is your mother. Bob ? ” he then said, approaching the 
stumpy urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and 
awaiting his pleasure. 

“ Please sir, she’s all right, but she coughs ’orful ! ” 

“ Coughs ’orful, does she ? ” repeated the Beverend John, 
musingly; “ Ah, that is bad ! — I am sorry ! We must — let me 
think ! — yes, Bob, we must see what we can do for her — eh ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and 
round and wondering what ‘Passon’ was thinking about to 
have such a ‘ funny look ’ in his eyes. 

“Yes !” repeated Walden, cheerfully, “We must see what 
we can do for her ! My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, 
Bob, and say I will write.” 

“ Nothink else, sir ? * 

“Nothing — or as you put it. Bob, ‘nothink else’! I wish 
you would remember, my dear boy,” — and here he laid his 
firm, well-shaped hand protectingly on the small brown cordu- 
roy shoulder, — “ that the word ‘ nothing ’ does iiot terminate 
in a ‘ k.’ If you refer to your spelling-book, I am sure you 
will see that I am right. The Educational authorities would 
not approve of your pronunciation. Bob, and I am endeavour- 


8 


God’s Good Man 


Ing to save you future trouble with the Government. By the 
way, did Sir Morton Pippitt give you anything for bringing 
his note to me ? ” 

“ Sed he would when I got back, sir.” 

a Said he would when you got back ? Well, — I have my 
doubts, Bob, — I do not think he will. And the labourer being 
worthy of his hire, here is sixpence, which, if you like to do a 
sum on your slate, you will find is at the rate of one penny per 
mile. When you are a working man, you will understand the 
strict justice of my payment. It is three miles from Bads- 
worth Hall and three back again, — and now I come to think 
of it, what were you doing up at Badsworth ? ” 

Bob Keeley grinned from ear to ear. 

“ Me an’ Kitty Spruce went up on spec with a Maypole 
early, sir ! ” 

John Walden smiled. It was May morning, — of course it 
was ! — and in the village of St. Best the old traditional cus- 
toms of May Day were still kept up, though in the county town 
of Biversford, only seven miles away, they were forgotten, or 
if remembered at all, were only used as an excuse for drinking 
and vulgar horse-play. 

“ You and Kitty Spruce went up on spec ? Very enter- 
prising of you both, I am sure ! And did you make anything 
out of it ? ” 

“ No, sir, — there ain’t no ladies there, ’cept Miss Tabitha, — 
onny some London gents, — and Sir Morton, ’e flew into an 
orful passion — like ’e do, sir, — an’ told us to leave off singin’ 
and git out , — 1 Git off my ground,’ he ’oilers — 4 Git off ! ’ — 
then jest as we was a gittin’ off, he cools down suddint like, 
an’ ’e sez, sez ’e: ; Take a note to the dam passon for me, an’ 

bring a harnser, an’ I’ll give yer somethink when yer gits 
back.’ An’ all the gents was a-sittin’ at breakfast, with the 
winders wide open an’ the smell of ’am an’ eggs cornin’ through 
strong, an’ they larfed fit to split theirselves, an’ one on ’em 
tried to kiss Kitty Spruce, an’ she spanked his face for ’im ! ” 

The narration of this remarkable incident, spoken with 
breathless rapidity in a burst of confidence, seemed to cause 
the relief supposed to be obtained by a penitent in the con- 
fessional, and to lift a weight off Bob Keeley’s mind. The 
smile deepened on the 4 Passon’s’ face, and for a moment he 
had some difficulty to control an outbreak of laughter, but 
recollecting the possibly demoralising effect it might have on 
the more youthful members of the community, if he, the spir- 


God’s Good Man 


9 


itual director of the parish, were reported to have laughed at 
the pugnacious conduct of the valiant Kitty Spruce, he con- 
trolled himself, and assumed a tolerantly serious air. 

“ That will do. Bob! — that will do! You must learn not 
to repeat all you hear, especially such objectionable words as 

may occasionally be used by a a a gentleman of Sir 

Morton Pippitt’s high standing.” 

And here he squared his shoulders and looked severely down 
an the abashed Keeley. Anon he unbent himself somewhat 
and his eyes twinkled with kindly humour : “ Why didn’t you 
bring the Maypole here ? ” he enquired ; u I suppose you 
thought it would not be as good a ‘ spec as Badsworth Hall 
and the London gents — eh ? 99 

Bob Keeley opened his round eyes very wide. 

“We be all cornin’ ’ere, sir! ” he burst out: (( All on us — 
ever so many on us ! But we reckoned to make a round of 
the village first and see how we took on, and finish up wi’ you, 
sir ! Kitty Spruce she be a-keepin’ her best ribbin for cornin’ 
’ere — we be all a-comin’ ’fore twelve ! ” 

Walden smiled. 

u Good ! I shall expect you ! And mind you don’t all 
sing out of tune when you do come. If you commit such an 

offence, I shall let me see ! — I shall make mincemeat of 

you ! — I shall indeed ! Positive mincemeat ! — and bottle you 
up in jars for Christmas!” And he nodded with the fero- 
ciously bland air of the giant in a fairy tale, whose particular 
humour is the devouring of small children. “ Now you had 
better get back to Badsworth Hall with my message. Do you 
remember it ? My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and I 
will write.” 

He turned away, and Bob Keeley made as rapid a departure 
as was consistent with the deep respect he felt for the ‘ Passon,’ 
having extracted a promise from the butcher boy of the village, 
who was a friend of his, that if he were ‘ quick about it,’ he 
would get a drive up to Badsworth and back again in the 
butcher’s cart going there for orders, instead of tramping it. 

The Beverend John, meanwhile, strolled down one of the 
many winding garden paths, past clusters of daffodils, narcissi 
and primroses, into a favourite corner which he called the 
i Wilderness,’ because it was left by his orders in a more or 
less untrimmed, untrained condition of luxuriantly natural 
growth. Here the syringa, a name sometimes given by horti- 
cultural pedants to the lilac, for no reason at all excewt to 


10 


God’s Good Man 


create confusion in the innocent minds of amateur growers, 
was opening its white ‘mock orange’ blossoms, and a mass 
of flowering aconites spread out before him like a carpet of 
woven gold. Here, too, tufts of bluebells peeked forth from 
behind the moss-grown stems of several ancient oaks and elms, 
and purple pansies bordered the edge of the grass. A fine old 
wistaria grown in tree-form, formed a natural arch of entry 
to this shady retreat, and its flowers were just now in their 
full beauty, hanging in a magnificent profusion of pale mauve 
grapelike bunches from the leafless stems. Many roses, of 
the climbing or ‘ rambling ’ kind, were planted here, and 
John Walden’s quick eye soon perceived where a long green 
shoot of one of those was loose and waving in the wind to its 
own possible detriment. He felt in his pockets for a hit of 
roffia or twine to tie up the straying stem, — he was very seldom 
without something of the kind for such emergencies, but this 
time he only groped among the fragments of Sir Morton Pip- 
pitt’s note and found nothing useful. Stepping out on the 
path again, he looked about him and caught a glimpse of a 
stooping, bulky form in weather-beaten garments, planting 
something in one of the borders at a little distance. 

“ Bainton ! ” he called. 

The figure slowly raised itself, and as slowly turned its head. 

“ Sir!” 

“ Just come here and tie this rose up, will you ? ” 

The individual addressed approached at a very deliberate 
pace, dragging out some entangled roffia from his pocket as he 
came and severing it into lengths with his teeth. Walden 
partly prepared his task for him by holding up the rose branch 
in the way it should go, and on his arrival assisted him in the 
business of securing it to the knotty bough from which it had 
fallen. 

“ That looks better ! ” he remarked approvingly, as he 
stepped back and surveyed it. “ You might do this one at the 
same time while you are about it, Bainton.” 

And he pointed to a network of ‘ Crimson rambler ’ rose- 
stems which had blown loose from their moorings and were 
lying across the grass. 

“ This place wants a reg’ler clean out,” remarked Bainton 
then, in accents of deep disdain, as he stooped to gather up 
the refractory branches : “ It beats me altogether, Passon, to 
know what you wants wi’ a forcin’ bed for weeds an’ stuff 
in the middle of a decent garden. That old Wistaria Sin- 


God’s Good Man 


n 


yens (Sinensis) is the only thing here that is worth keeping. 
Ah ! Y’are a precious sight, y’are ! ” he continued, apostro- 
phising the * rambler ’ branches — ■“ For all yer green buds ye 
ain’t a-goin’ to do much this year ! All sham an’ ’umbug, 
y’are ! — all leaf an’ shoot an’ no flower, — like a great many 
people I knows on — ah ! — an’ not so far from this village 
neither! I’d clear it all out if I was you, Passon, — I would 
reely now ! ” 

Walden laughed. 

“ Don’t open the old argument, Bainton ! ” he said good- 
humouredly; “We have talked of this before. I like a bit of 
wild Nature sometimes.” 

i “ Wild natur ! ” echoed Bainton. “ Seems to me natur 
alius wants a bit of a wash an’ brush up ’fore she sits down to 
her master’s table; — an’ who’s ’er master ? Man ! She’s jest 
like a child cornin’ out of a play in the woods, an’ ’er ’air’s all 
blown, an’ ’er nails is all dirty. That’s natur ! Trim ’er up 
an’ curl ’er ’air an’ she’s worth looking at. Natur ! Lor’, 
Passon, if ye likes wild natur ye ain’t got no call to keep a 
gard’ner. But if ye pays me an’ keeps me, ye must ’spect me 
to do my duty. Wherefore I sez: why not ’ave this ’ere 
musty-fusty place, a reg’ler breedin’ ’ole for hinsects, wopses, 
’omits, snails an’ green caterpillars — ah ! an’ I shouldn’t won- 
der if potato-fly got amongst ’em, too ! — why not, I say, have it 
cleaned out % ” 

“I like it as it is,” responded Walden with cheerful imper- 
turbability, and a smile at the thick-set obstinate-looking 
figure of his ‘ head man about the place ’ as Bainton loved to 
be called. “ Have you planted out my phloxes ? ” 

“Planted ’em out every one,” was the reply; “Likewhich 
the Delphy Inums. An’ I’ve put enough sweet peas in to 
supply Covint Garden market, bearin’ in mind as ’ow you 
sed you couldn’t have enough on ’em. Sir Morton Pippitt’s 
Lunnon valet came along while I was a-doin’ of it, an’ ’e 
peers over the ’edge an’ ’e sez, sez ’e: ‘Weedin’ com, are 
yer ? ’ 1 No, ye gowk,’ sez I ! ‘ Ever seen corn at all ’cept in 

a bin ? Mixed wi’ thistles, mebbe ? ’ An’ then he used a bit 
of ’is master’s or’nary language, wMch as ye knows, Passon, is 
chice — partic’ler chice. ‘ Evil communications c’rupts good 
manners ’ even in a valet wot ’as no more to do than wash an’ 
comb a man like a ’oss, an’ pocket fifty pun a year for keepin’ 
of ’is haristocratic master clean. Lor’ ! — what a wurrld it is l 
— what a wurrld ! ” 


12 


God’s Good Man 


He had by this time tied up the ‘ Crimson rambler ’ ic 
orderly fashion, and the Reverend John, stroking his mous- 
tache to hide a smile, proceeded to issue various orders accord- 
ing to his usual daily custom. 

“ Don’t forget to plant some mignonette in the west border, 
Bainton. Not the giant kind, — the odour of the large blooms 
is rough and coarse compared with that of the smaller variety. 
Put plenty of the f common stuff 9 in, — such mignonette as our 
grandmothers grew in their gardens, before you Latin-loving 
horticultural wise-acres began to try for size rather than 
sweetness.” 

Bainton drew himself up with a quaint assumption of dig- 
nity, and by lifting his head a little more, showed his counte- 
nance fully, — a countenance which, though weather-worn and 
deeply furrowed, was a distinctly intelligent one, shrewd and 
thoughtful, with sundry little curves of humour lighting up its 
native expression of saturnine sedateness. 

“ I suppose y’are alludin’ to the F.R.H.’s, Passon,” he said ; 
<c They all loves Latin, as cats loves milk ; howsomever, they 
never knows ’ow to pronounce it. Likewhich myself not bein’ 
a F.R.H. nor likely to be, I'm bound to confess I dabbles in it 
a bit, — though there’s a chap wot I gets cheap shrubs of, his 
Latin’s worse nor mine, an’ ’e’s got all the three letters after 
’is name. ’Ow did ’e get ’em ? By reason of competition in 
the Chrysanthum Show. Lor’ ! Henny fool can grow ye a 
chrysanthum as big as a cabbage, if that’s yer fancy, — that 
ain’t scientific gard’nin’ ! An’ as for the mignonette, I 
reckon to agree wi’ ye, Passon — the size ain’t the sweetness, 
likewhich when I married, I married a small lass, for sez I: 
‘ Little to carry, less to keep ! ’ An’ that’s true enough, 
though she’s gained in breadth, Lor’ love ’er ! — wot she never 
’ad in heighth. As I was a-sayin’, the chap wot I gets shrubs 
of, reels off ’is Latin like chollops of mud off a garden scraper ; 
but ’e don’t understand it while ’e sez it. Jes’ for show, bless 
ye ! It all goes down wi’ Sir Morton Pippitt, though, for ’e 
sez, sez ’e: * My cabbages are the prize vegetable, grown by 
Mr. Smogorton of Worcester, F.R.H.’ ’E’s got it in ’is Cat- 
log ! Hor !-hor !-hor ! Passon, a bit o’ Latin do go down wi’ 
some folks in the gard’nin’ line — it do reely now ! ” 

“ Talking of Sir Morton Pippitt,” said Walden, disregarding 
his gardener’s garrulity, “It seems he has visitors up at the 
Hall.” 

“’E ’as so,” returned Bainton; “RegTer weedy waifs an* 


God’s Good Man 


13 


strays o’ ’umanity, if one may go by out’ard appearance ; not a 
single firm, well-put-down leg among ’em. Mos’ly i lords ’ and 
‘sirs.’ Bein’ so jes’ lately knighted for buildin’ a ’ospital at 
Riversford, out of the proceeds o’ bone meltin’ into buttons. 
Sir Morton couldn’t a’ course, be expected to put up wi’ a 
plain 1 mister ’ takin’ food wi’ ’im.” 

“ Well, well, — whoever they are, they want to see the 
church.” 

“ Seems to me a sight o’ folks wants to see the church since 
ye spent so much money on it, Passon,” said Bainton some- 
what resentfully ; “ There oughter be a charge made for 
entry.” 

Walden smiled thoughtfully; but there was a small line of 
Vexation on his brow. 

“ They want to see the church,” he repeated, “Or rather 
Sir Morton wants them to ‘ inspect ’ the church — and then 
his smile expanded and became a soft mellow laugh ; “ What 
a pompous old fellow it is ! One would almost think he had 
restored the church himself, and not only restored it, but 
built it altogether and endowed it ! ” He turned to go, then 
suddenly bethought himself of other gardening matters, — • 
“ Bainton, that bare corner near the house must be filled with 
clematis. The plants are just ready to bed out. And look 
to the geraniums in the front border. By the way, do you 
see that straight line along the wall there, — where I am 
pointing ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ! ” dutifully rejoined Bainton, shading his eyes 
from the strong sun with one grimy hand. 

“ Well, plant nothing but hollyhocks there, — as many as you 
can cram in. We must have a blaze of colour to contrast 
with those dark yews. See to the jessamine and passion- 
flowers by the porch ; and there is a 1 Gloire ’ rose near the 
drawing-room window that wants cutting back a bit.” He 
moved a step or two, then again turned : “ I shall want you 

later on in the orchard, — the grass there needs attending to.” 

A slow grin pervaded Bainton’s countenance. 

“Ye minds me of the ’Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely 
now ! ” he said— “ Wi’ all yer different orders an’ idees, y’are 
behavin’ to me like the very moral o’ the livin’ Wurrd ! ” 

Walden looked amused. 

“ How do you make that out ? ” 

“ Easy enough, sir , — 1 The Scripter moveth us in sun’ry 
places ’ ! Hor !-hor !-hor ! — ” and Bainton burst into a 


iA 


God’s Good Man 


hoarse chuckle of mirth, entirely delighted with his own 
witticism, and walked off, not waiting to see whether its effect 
on his master was one of offence or appreciation. He was 
pretty sure of his ground, however, for he left John Walden 
laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with some of the 
sunshine stored up in his mind. And the sparkle of mirth still 
lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the seat 
where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated 
by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the 
apple-blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding 
to his study sat down and wrote the following brief epistle : 

“ The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to 
Sir Morton Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, 
as the church is always open and free. Sir Morton and his 
friends can c inspect ’ it at any time provided no service is in 
progress.” 

Putting this in an envelope, he sealed and stamped it. It 
should go by post, and Sir Morton would receive it next 
morning. There was no need for a 1 special messenger/ 
either in the person of Bob Keeley, or in the authorised Puck 
of the Post Office Messenger-service. 

“ For there is not the slightest hurry,” he said to himself: 
tc It will not hurt Sir Morton to be kept waiting. On the con- 
trary, it will do him good. He had it all his own way in this 
parish before I came, — but now for the past ten years he has 
known what it is to ‘kick against the pricks’ of legitimate 
Church authority. Legitimate Church authority is a fine 
thing ! Half the Churchmen in the world don’t use it, and a 
goodly portion of the other half misuse it. But when you’ve 
got a bumptious, purse-proud, self-satisfied old county snob 
like Sir Morton Pippitt to deal with, the pressure of the iron 
hand should be distinctly exercised under the velvet glove ! ” 

He laughed heartily, throwing back his head with a sense of 
enjoyment in his laughter. Then, rising from his desk, he 
turned towards the wide latticed doors of his study, which 
opened into the garden, and looked out dreamily, as though 
looking across the world and far beyond it. The sweet mixed 
warbling of birds, the thousand indistinguishable odours of 
flowers, made the air both fragrant and musical. The 
glorious sunshine, the clear blue sky, the rustling of the young 
leaves, the whispering swish of the warm wind through the 
shrubberies, — all these influences entered the mind and soul of 
the man and aroused a keen joy which almost touched the 


God’s Good Man 


15 


verge of sadness. Life pulsated about him in such waves of 
creative passion, that his own heart throbbed uneasily with 
Nature’s warm restlessness; and the unanswerable query 
which, in spite of his high and spiritual faith had often 
troubled him, came back again hauntingly to his mind, — - 
“ Why should Life be made so beautiful only to end in 
Death ? ” 

This was the Shadow that hung over all things; this was 
the one darkness he and others of his calling were com- 
missioned to transfuse into light, — this was the one dismal 
end for all poor human creatures which he, as a minister of 
the Gospel was bound to try and represent as not an End but 
a Beginning, — and his soul was moved to profound love and 
pity as he raised his eyes to the serene heavens and asked 
himself: “What compensation can all the most eloquent 
teaching and preaching make to men for the loss of the mere 
sunshine ? Can the vision of a world beyond the grave satisfy 
the heart so much as this one perfect morning of May ! ” 

An involuntary sigh escaped him. The beating wings of a 
swallow flying from its nest under the old gabled eaves above 
him flashed a reflex of quivering light against his eyes; and 
away in the wide meadow beyond, where the happy cattle 
wandered up to their fetlocks in cowslips and lush grass, the 
cuckoo called with cheerful persistence. One of old Chaucer’s 
quaintly worded legends came to his mind, — telling how the 
courtly knight Arcite, 

“ Is risen, and looketh on the merrie daye 
All for to do his observance to Maye, — 

And to the grove of which that I you told, 

By aventure his way he gan to hold 
To maken him a garland of the greves. 

Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves, 

And loud he sung against the sunny sheen,— 

* O Maye with all thy flowers and thy green. 

Right welcome be thou, fairg, freshS, Maye! 

I hope that I some green here getten may ! ” 

Smiling at the antique simplicity and freshness of the lines 
as they rang across his brain like the musical jingle of an old- 
world spinet, his ears suddenly caught the sound of young 
voices singing at a distance. 

“ Here come the children ! ” he said ; and stepping out from 
his open window into the garden, he again bent his ear to 
listen. The tremulous voices came nearer and nearer, and 


l6 


God’s Good Man 


words could now be distinguished, breaking through the 
primitive quavering melody of 1 The Mayers’ Song ’ known to 
all the country side since the thirteenth century : 

“ Remember us poor Mayers all. — 

And thus do we begin, 

To lead our lives in righteousness. 

Or else we die in sin. 

We have been rambling all this night. 

And almost all this day, 

And now returning back again. 

We bring you in the May. 

The hedges and trees they are so green. 

In the sunne’s goodly heat. 

Our Heavenly Father He watered them 
With His Heavenly dew so sweet. 

* A branch of May we have brought you ” 

Here came a pause and the chorus dropped into an uncer- 
tain murmur. John Walden heard his garden gates swing 
back on their hinges, and a shuffling crunch of numerous small 
feet on the gravel path. 

u G’arn, Susie ! ” cried a shrill boy’s voice — “ If y’are leadin’ 
ns, lead ! G’arn ! ” 

A sweet flute-like treble responded to this emphatic adjura- 
tion, singing alone, clear and high, 

“ A branch of May ” 

and then all the other voices chimed in : 

“A branch of May we have brought you 
And at your door it stands, 

’Tis but a sprout, 

But ’tis budded out 
By the work of our Lord’s hands! ” 

And with' this, a great crown of crimson and white blossoms, 
set on a tall, gaily-painted pole and adorned with bright col- 
oured ribbons, came nid-nodding down the box-tree alley to 
the middle of the lawn opposite Walden’s study window, where 
it was quickly straightened up and held in position by the 
eager hands of some twenty or thirty children, of all sizes and 
ages, who, surrounding it at its base, turned their faces, full 


God’s Good Man 17 

oi shy exultation towards their pastor, still singing, but in 
more careful time and tune : 

“The Heavenly gates are open wide, 

Our paths are beaten plain. 

And if a man be not too far gone, 

He may return again. 

The moon shines bright and the stars give light 
A little before it is day, 

So God bless you all, both great and small. 

And send you a merrie May! ” 


II 


XpOR a moment or two Walden found himself smitten by so 
strong a sense of the mere simple sensuous joy of living, 
that he could do no more than stand looking in silent admira- 
tion at the pretty group of expectant young creatures gathered 
round the Maypole, and huddled, as it were, under its cum- 
brous crown of dewy blossoms, which showed vividly against 
the clear sky, while the long streamers of red, white and blue 
depending from its summit, trailed on the daisy-sprinkled 
grass at their feet. 

Every little face was familiar and dear to him. That awk- 
ward lad, grinning from ear to ear, with a particularly fine 
sprig of flowering hawthorn in his cap, was Dick Styles; — - 
certainly a very different individual to Chaucer’s knight, 
Arcite, but resembling him in so far that he had evidently 
gone into the woods early, moved by the same desire : “ I 

hope that I some green here getten may ! ” That tiny girl, 
well to the front, with a clean white frock on and no hat to 
cover her tangle of golden curls, was Baby Hippolyta, — the 
last, the very last, of the seemingly endless sprouting olive 
branches of the sexton, Adam Erost. Why the poor child had 
been doomed to carry the name of Hippolyta, no one ever 
knew. When he, Walden, had christened her, he almost 
doubted whether he had heard the lengthy appellation aright, 
and ventured to ask the godmother of the occasion to repeat 
it in a louder voice. Whereupon ‘ Hip — po — ly — ta ’ was 
uttered in such strong tones, so thoroughly well enunciated, 
that he could no longer mistake it, and the helpless infant, 
screaming lustily, left the simple English baptismal font bur- 
dened with a purely Greek designation. She was, however, 
always called ‘ Ipsie ’ by her playmates, and even her mother 
and father, who were entirely responsible for her name in the 
first instance, found it somewhat weighty for daily utterance 
and gladly adopted the simpler sobriquet, though the elders of 
the village generally were rather fond of calling her with much 
solemn unction : ‘ Baby Hippolyta,’ as though it were an 
elaborate joke. Ipsie was one of the loveliest children in the 

18 


God’s Good Man 


19 


village, and though she was only two-and-a-half years old, she 
was fully aware of her own charms. She was pushed to the 
front of the Maypole this morning, merely because she was 
pretty, — and she knew it. That was why she lifted the ex- 
treme edge of her short skirt and put it in her mouth, thereby 
displaying her fat innocent bare legs extensively, and smiled 
at the Reverend John Walden out of the uplifted corners of 
her forget-me-not blue eyes. Then there was Bob Keeley, 
more or less breathless with excitement, having just got back 
again from Badsworth Hall, his friend the butcher boy having 
driven him to and from that place ‘ in a jiffy ’ as he afterwards 
described it, — and there was a very sparkling, smiling, viva- 
cious little person of about fifteen, in a lilac cotton frock, 
who wore a wreath of laburnum on her black curls, no other 
than Kitty Spruce, generally alluded to in the village as 1 Bob 
Keeley’s gel ’ ; — and standing near Baby Hippolyta, or 1 Ipsie,’ 
was the acknowledged young beauty of the place, Susie 
Prescott, a slip of a lass with a fair Madonna-like face, long 
chestnut curls and great, dark, soft eyes like pansies filled 
with dew. Susie had a decided talent for music, — she sang 
very prettily, and led the village choir, under the guidance of 
Miss Janet Eden, the schoolmistress. This morning, how- 
ever, she was risking the duties of conductorship on her own 
account, and very sweet she looked in her cheap white nuns- 
veiling gown, wearing a bunch of narcissi carelessly set in her 
hair and carrying a flowering hazel-wand in her hand, with 
which she beat time for her companions as they followed her 
bird-like carolling in the ‘Mayers’ Song.’ But just now all 
singing had ceased, — and every one of the children had their 
round eyes fixed on John Walden with a mingling of timidity, 
affection and awe that was very winning and pretty to behold. 

Taking in the whole picture of nature, youth and beauty, as 
it was set against the pure background of the sky, Walden 
realised that he was expected to say something, — in fact, he 
had been called upon to say something every year at this time, 
but he had never been able to conquer the singular nervous- 
ness which always overcame him on such occasions. It is one 
thing to preach from a pulpit to an assembled congregation 
who are prepared for orthodoxy and who are ready to listen 
with more or less patience to the expounding of the same, — 
but it is quite another to speak to a number of girls and boys 
all full of mirth and mischief, and as ready for a frolic as a 
herd of young colts in a meadow. Especially when it happens 


20 


God's Good Man 


that most of the girls are pretty, and when, as a clergyman 
and director of souls, one is conscious that the boys are more 
or less all in love with the girls, — that one is a bachelor, — 
getting on in years too ; — and that — chief est of all — it is May- 
morning ! One may perhaps be conscious of a contraction at* 
the heart, — a tightening of the throat, — even a slight mist 
before the eyes may tease and perplex such an one — who 
knows? A flash of lost youth may sting the memory, — a 
boyish craving for love and sympathy may stir the blood, and 
may make the gravest parson’s speech incoherent, — for after 
all, even a minister of the Divine is but a man. 

At any rate the Reverend John found it difficult to begin. 
The round forget-me-not eyes of Baby Hippolyta stared into 
his face with relentless persistency, — the velvet pansy-coloured 
ones of Susie Prescott smiled confidingly up at him with a 
bewildering youthfulness and unconsciousness of charm; and 
the mischief-loving small boys and village yokels who stood 
grouped against the Maypole like rough fairy foresters guard- 
ing magic timber, were, with all the rest of the children, 
hushed into a breathless expectancy, waiting eagerly for 
‘Passon’ to speak. And ‘Passon’ thereupon began, — in the 
lamest, feeblest, most paternally orthodox manner : 

“ My dear children ” 

“ Hooray ! Hooray ! Three cheers for ‘ Passon * ! Hooray ! * 
Wild whooping followed, and the Maypole rocked uneasily, 
and began to slant downward in a drunken fashion, like a 
convivial giant whom strong wine has made doubtful of hia 
footing. 

“Take care, you young rascals!” cried Walden, letting 
sentiment, orthodoxy and eloquence go to the winds, — “You 
will have the whole thing down ! ” 

Peals of gay laughter responded, and the nodding mass of 
bloom was swiftly pulled up and assisted to support its 
necessary horizontal dignity. But here Baby Hippolyta sud- 
denly created a diversion. Moved perhaps by the conscious- 
ness of her own beauty, or by the general excitement' around 
her, she suddenly waved a miniature branch of hawthorn and 
emitted a piercing yell. 

“ Passon ! Turn ’ere ! Passon ! Turn ’ere ! ” 

There was no possibility of i holding forth ’ after this. A 
short address on the brevity of life, as being co-equal with the 
evanescent joys of a Maypole, would hardly serve, — and a 
fatherly ambition as to the unbecoming attitude of mendi- 


God’s Good Man 


21 


cancy assumed by independent young villagers carrying a 
great crown of flowers round to every bouse in the neighbour- 
hood, and demanding pence for the show, would scarcely bo 
popular. Because what did the 4 Mayers 9 Song say : 

“ The Heavenly gates are opened wide, 

Our paths are beaten plain; 

And if a man be not too far gone, 

He may return again.” 

And the 4 Heavenly gates 9 of Spring being wide open, the 
Keverend John thought his special path was ‘beaten plain 9 
for the occasion ; and not being 4 too far gone 9 either in 
bigotry or lack of heart, John did what he reverently imagined 
the Divine Master might have done when He ‘took a little 
child and set it in the midst.” He obeyed Baby Hippolyta’s 
imperious command, and to her again loudly reiterated 
44 Passon ! Turn ’ere ! 99 he sprang forward and caught her up 
in his arms, kissing her rosy cheeks heartily as he did so. 
Seated in 4 high exalted state 9 upon his shoulder. 4 Ipsie * 
became Hippolyta in good earnest, so thoroughly aware was 
she of her dignity, while, holding her as lightly and buoyantly 
as he would have held a bird, the Keverend John turned his 
smiling face on his young parishioners. 

44 Come along, boys and girls ! ” he exclaimed, — “ Come 
and plant the Maypole in the big meadow yonder, as you did 
last year ! It is a holiday for us all to-day, — for me as well as 
for you ! It has always been a holiday even before the days 
when great Elizabeth was Queen of England, and though 
many dear old customs have fallen into disuse with the chang- 
ing world, St. Rest has never yet been robbed of its May-day 
festival ! Be thankful for that, children ! — and come along; 
—but move carefully ! — keep order, — and sing as you come ! 99 

Whereupon Susie Prescott lifted up her pretty voice again 
and her hazel wand baton at the same moment, and started 
the chorus with the verse : 

“We have been rambling all this night. 

And almost all this day; 

And now returning back again, 

We bring you in the May ! ” 

A-n d thus carolling, they passed through the garden moving 
meadow-wards, Walden at the head of the procession, — and 
Baby Hippolyta seated on his shoulder, was so elated with the 


22 


God’s Good Man 


gladsome sights and sounds, that she clasped her chubby arms 
round 4 Passon’s ’ neck and kissed him with a fervour that was 
as fresh and delightful as it was irresistibly comic. 

Bainton, making his way along the southern wall of the 
orchard, to take a 4 glance round 9 as he termed it, at the con- 
dition of the wall fruit-trees before his master joined him on 
the usual morning tour of inspection, stopped and drew aside 
to watch the merry procession winding along under the brown 
stems dotted with thousands of red buds splitting into pink- 
and-white bloom; and a slow smile moved the furrows of his 
face upward in various pleasant lines as he saw the 4 Passon 9 
leading it with a light step, carrying the laughing 4 Ipsie 9 on 
his shoulder, and now and again joining in the 4 Mayers’ 
Song ’ with a mellow baritone voice that warmed and sustained 
the whole chorus. 

44 There 9 e goes ! ” he said half aloud — 44 Jes’ like a hoy ! — 
for all the wurrld like a boy! I reckon Vs got the secret o’ 
never growin’ old, for all that ’is ’air’s turnin’ a bit grey. ’Ow 
many passons in this ’ere neighbrood would carry the children* 
like that, I wonder ? Not one on ’em ! — though there’s a 
many to pick an’ choose from — a darned sight too many if 
you axes my opinion ! Old Putty Leveson, wi’s bobbin’ an’ 
’is bowin’s to the east — hor ! — hor ! — hor ! — a fine east ’e’s got 
in ’is mouldy preachin’ barn, wi’ a whitewashed wall an’ a 
dirty bit o’ tinsel fixed up agin it — he wouldn’t touch a child 
o’ ourn, to save ’is life — though ’e’s got three or four mean, 
lyin’ pryin’ brats of ’is own runnin’ wild about the place as 
might jest as well ’ave never been bom. And as for Francis 
Anthony, the ’igh pontiff o’ Biversford, wi’s big altar-cloak 
embrided for ’im by all the poor skinny spinsters wot ain’t 
never ’ad no chance to marry — ’e’d see all the children blowed 
to bits under the walls of Jericho to the sound o’ the trumpets 
afore ’e’d touch ’em ! Talk o’ saints ! — I’m not very good at 
unnerstannin’ that kind o’ folk, not seein’ myself ’owever a 
saint could manage to get on in this mortal wurrld; but I 
reckon to think there’s a tollable imitation o’ the real article 
in Passon Walden — the jolly sort o’ saint, o’ coorse, — not the 
prayin’, whinin’, snuffin’ kind. ’E’s been doin’ nothin’ but 
good ever since ’e came ’ere, which m’appen partly from ’is not 
bein’ married. If ’e’d gotten a wife, the place would a’ been 
awsome different. Not but wot ’e ain’t a bit cranky over ’ia, ' 
flowers ’isself. But I’d rather ’ave ’im fussin’ round than a 
petticut arter me. A petticut at ’ome’s enough, an’ I ain’t 


God’s Good Man 


23 


complainin’ on it, though it’s a bit breezy sometimes, — but a 
petticut in the gard’nin’ line would drive me main wild — it 
would reely now ! ” 

And still smiling with perfect complacency, he watched the 
Maypole being carried ctrefully along the space of grass left 
open between the fruit trees on either side of the orchard, and 
followed its bright patch of colour and the children’s faces and 
forms around it, till it entirely disappeared among the thicker 
green of a clump of elms that bordered the ‘big meadow/ 
which Walden generally kept clear of both crops and cattle for 
the benefit of the village sports and pastimes. 

He was indeed the only land-owner in the district who gave 
any consideration of this kind to the needs of the people. St. 
Best was surrounded on all sides by several large private prop- 
erties, richly wooded, and possessing many acres of ploughed 
and pasture land, but there was no public right-of-way across 
any single one of them, and every field, every woodland path, 
every tempting dell was rigidly fenced and guarded from 
‘vulgar’ intrusion. Hone of the proprietors of these estates, 
however, appeared to take the least personal joy or pride in 
their possessions. They were for the most part away in London 
for ‘the season’ or abroad ‘out’ of the season, — and their 
extensive woods appeared to exist chiefly for the preservation 
of game, reared solely to be shot by a few idle louts of fashion 
during September and October, and also for the convenience 
and support of a certain land agent, one Oliver Leach, who 
cut down fine old timber whenever he needed money, and 
thought it advisable to pocket the proceeds of such devastation. 

Scarcely in one instance out of a hundred did the actual 
owners of property miss the trees sufficiently to ask what had 
become of them. So long as the game was all right, they paid 
little heed to the rest. The partridges and the pheasants 
thrived, and so did Mr. Oliver Leach. He enjoyed, however, 
the greatest unpopularity of any man in the neighbourhood, 
which was some small comfort to those who believed in the 
laws of compensation and justice. Bainton was his particular 
enemy for one, and Bainton’s master, John Walden, for 
another. His long-practised ‘knavish tricks’ and the mali; 
cious delight he took in trying to destroy or disfigure the 
sylvan beauty of the landscape by his brutish ignorance of 
the art of forestry, combined with his own personal greed, were 
beginning to be well-known in St. Best, and it is very certain 
that on May-morning when the youngsters of the village were 


24 


God’s Good Man 


abroad and, to a great extent, had it all their own way, 
(aided and abetted in that way by the recognised authority of 
the place, the minister himself,) he would never have dared to 
show his hard face and stiffly upright figure anywhere, lest he 
should be unmercifully 6 guyed ’ without a chance of rescue 
or appeal. 

With the disappearance of the Maypole into the further 
meadow, Bainton likewise disappeared on his round of duty, 
which, as he had declared, moved him 1 in sundry places/ and 
for a little while the dove-like spirit of Spring brooded in 
restful silence over the quiet orchard and garden. 

The singing of the May-day children had now grown so faint 
and far as to be scarcely audible, — and the call of the cuckoo 
shrilling above the plaintive murmur of the wood pigeons, soon 
absorbed even the echo of the young human voices passing 
away. A light breeze stirred the tender green grass, shaking 
down a shower of pink almond bloom as it swept fan-like 
through the luminous air, — a skylark half lost in the brilliant 
blue, began to descend earthwards, flinging out a sparkling 
fountain of music with every quiver of his jewel-like wings, 
and away in the sheltered shade of a small hazel copse, the 
faint fluty notes of a nightingale trembled with a mysterious 
sweetness suggestive of evening, when the song should be full. 

More than an hour elapsed, and no living being entered the* 
seclusion of the parson’s garden save Nebbie, the parson’s 
rough Aberdeen terrier, who, appearing suddenly at the open 
study-window, sniffed at the fair prospect for a moment, and 
then, stepping out with a leisurely air of proprietorship lay 
down on the grass in the full sunshine. A wise-looking dog 
was Nebbie, — though few would have thought that his full 
nam> was Nebuchadnezzar. Only the Reverend John knew 
that. Nebbie was perfectly aware that the children had comp 
with Tie Maypole, and that his master had accompanied them 
to the big meadow. Nebbie also knew that presently that 
same master of his would return again to make the circuit of 
the garden in the company of Bainton, according to custom, — 
and as he stretched his four hairy paws out comfortably, and 
blinked his brown eyes at a portly blackbird prodding in the 
turf for a worm within a stone’s throw of him, he was evidently 
considering whether it would be worth his while, as an epicu- 
rean animal, to escort these two men on their usual round on 
such a warm pleasant morning. For it was a dog’s real lazy 
day, — a day when merely to lie on the grass was sufficient 


God’s Good Man 


25 


satisfaction for the canine mind. And Nebbie, yawning 
extensively, and stretching himself a little more, closed his 
eyes in a rapture of peace, and stirred his tail slightly with 
one, two, three mild taps on the soft grass, when a sudden 
clear whistle caused him to spring up with every hair bristling 
on end, fore-paws well forward and eyes wide open. 

“ Nebbie! Nebbie. ! ” 

Nebbie was nothing if not thoroughbred, and the voice of 
his master was, despite all considerations of sleep and sun- 
shine, to him as the voice of the commanding officer to a 
subaltern. He was off like a shot at a tearing pace, nose down 
and tail erect, and in less than a minute had scented Walden 
in the shrubbery, which led by devious windings down from 
the orchard to the banks of the river Rest, and there finding 
him, started frantically gambolling round and round him, as 
though years had parted man and dog from one another, in- 
stead of the brief space of an hou^. Walden was smiling to 
himself, and his countenance was extremely pleasant. Nebbie, 
with the quaint conceit common to pet animals, imagined that 
the smile was produced specially for him, and continued his 
wild jumps and barks till his red tongue hung a couple of 
inches out of his mouth with excess of heat and enthusiasm. 

“Nebbie! Nebbie !” said the Reverend John, mildly; 
“ Don’t make such a noise ! Down, lad, down ! ” 

Nebbie subsided, and on reaching the river bank, squatted 
on his haunches, with his tongue still lolling out, while he 
watched his master step on a small floating pier attached by 
iron chains and posts to the land, and bend therefrom over 
into the clear water, looking anxiously downward to a spot he 
well knew, where hundreds of rare water-lilies were planted 
deep in the bed of the stream. 

“ Nymphea Odorata,” — he murmured, in the yearning tone 
of a lover addressing his beloved ; — “ Nymphea Chromatella 

now I wonder if I shall see anything of them this year! 

The Aurora Caroliniana must have been eaten up by water- 
rats ! ” 

Nebbie uttered a short bark. The faintest whisper of 
'rats’ seriously affected his nerves. He could have told his 
master many a harrowing story of those mischievous creatures 
swimming to and fro in the peaceful flood, tearing with their 
sharp teeth at the lily roots, and making a horrible havoc of all 
the most perfect buds of promise. The river Rest itself was 
so clear and bright that it was difficult to associate rats 


26 


God’s Good Man 


with its silver flowing, — yet rats there were, hiding among the 
osiers and sedges, frightening the moorhens and reed-warblers 
out of their little innocent lives. Nebbie caught and killed 
them whenever he could, — but he had no particular taste for 
swimming, and he was on rather ‘strained relations’ with a 
pair of swans who, with a brood of cygnets kept fierce guard 
on the opposite bank against all unwelcome intrusion. 

His careful examination of the lily beds done, John Walden 
sprang back again from the pier to the land, and there hesi- 
tated a moment. His eyes rested longingly on a light punt, 
which, running half out of a rustic boathouse, swayed sug- 
gestively on the gleaming water. 

“I wish I had time, — ” he said, half aloud, while Nebbie 
wagging his tail violently, sat waiting and expectant. The 
river looked deliciously tempting. The young green of the 
silver birches drooping above its shining surface, the lights 
and shadows rippling across it with every breath of air, — the 
skimming of swallows to and fro, — the hum of bees among the 
cowslips, thyme and violets that were pushing fragrantly 
through the clipped turf, — were all so many wordless invita- 
tions to him to go forth into the fair freedom of Nature. 

“The green trees whispered low and mild, 

It was a sound of joy! 

They were my playmates when a child. 

And rocked me in their arms so wild! 

Still they looked on me and smiled 
As if I were a boy! ” 

Such simple lines, — by Longfellow too, the despised of all 
the Sir Oracles of criticism, — yet coming to Walden’s memory 
suddenly, they touched a chord of vivid emotion. 

“And still they whispered soft and low! 

Oh, I could not choose but go! ” 

he hummed half under his breath, and then with a decided 
movement turned from the winding river towards the house. 

No, Nebbie, it’s no use,” he said aloud, addressing his 
four-footed comrade, who thereupon got up reluctantly and 
began to trot pensively beside him — “We mustn’t be selfish. 
There are a thousand and one things to do. There is dinner 
to be served to the children at two o’clock — there is Mrs. Nee- 
ley to call upon — there are the school accounts to be looked 


God's Good Man 


27 


into, — ” here he glanced at his watch — “ Good Heavens ! — 
how time flies! It is half-past eleven! I shall have to see 
Bainton later on.” 

He hurried his steps and was just in sight of his study 
window, when he was met by his parlourmaid, a neat, trim 
young woman who rejoiced in the euphonious name of Hester 
Rockett, and who said as she approached him : 

“ If you please, sir, Mrs. Spruce.” 

His genial face fell a little, and he heaved a short sigh. 

“ Mrs. Spruce ? Oh, Lord ! — I mean, very well ! Show her 
in, Hester. You are sure she wants to see me? Or is it her 
girl Kitty she is after ? ” 

“ She didn’t mention Kitty, sir,” replied Hester demurely ; 
“ She said she wished to see you very particular.” 

“All right! Show her into my study, and afterwards just 
go round to the orchard and tell Bainton I will see him when 
he’s had his dinner. I know I sha’n’t get ofl under an hour 
at least ! ” 

He sighed again, then smiled, and entered the house, Nebbie 
sedately following. Arrived in his own quiet sanctum, he took 
off his soft slouched hat and seated himself at his desk with a 
composed air of patient attention, as the door was opened to 
admit a matronly-looking lady with a round and florid coun- 
tenance, clad in a voluminous black gown, and wearing a some- 
what aggressive black bonnet, ‘ tipped’ well forward, under 
which her grey hair was plastered so far back as to be scarcely 
visible. There was a certain aggrieved dignity about her, and 
a generally superior tone of self-consciousness even in the 
curtsey which she dropped respectfully, as she returned 
Walden’s kindly nod and glance. 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Spruce ! ” 

“ Good morning, sir ! I trust I see you well, sir ? ” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Spruce, I am very well.” 

“Which is a mercy indeed!” said Mrs. Spruce fervently; 
“For we never knows from one day to another whether we 
may be sound or crippled, considering the diseases which now 
flies in the air with the dust in the common road, as the 
papers tell us, — and dust is a thing we cannot prevent, do 
what we may, for the dust is there by the will of the Almighty, 
Who made us all out of it.” 

She paused. John Walden smiled and pointed to a chair. 

“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Spruce?” 

“Thank you kindly, sir!” and Mrs. Spruce accordingly 


28 


God’s Good Man 


plumped into the seat indicated with, evident relief and satis- 
faction. “ I will confess that it is a goodish step to walk on 
such a warm morning.” 

“You have come straight from the Manor?” enquired 
Walden, turning over a few papers on his desk, and wondering 
within himself when the good woman was going to unburden 
herself of her business. 

“ Straight from the Manor, sir, yes, — and such a heat and 
moil I never felt on any May morning, which is most onwhole- 
some, I am sure. A cold May and a warm June is what I 
prefers myself,— but when you get the cuckoo and the night- 
ingale clicketin’ together in the woods on the First of May, 
you can look out for quarrelsome weather at Midsummer, 
leastways so I have heard my mother often say, and she was 
considered a wise woman in her time, I do assure you ! ” 

Here Mrs. Spruce untied her bonnet-strings and flung them 
apart, — she likewise loosened the top button of her collar and 
heaved a deep sigh. Again the Reverend John smiled, and 
vaguely balanced a penholder on his fore-finger. 

“I daresay your mother was quite right, Mrs. Spruce! 
Indeed, I believe all our mothers were quite right in their 
day. All the same, I’m glad it’s a fine May morning, for the 
children’s sakes. They are all down in the big meadow 
having a romp together. Your little Kittj is with them, 
looking as bright as a May blossom herself.” 

Mrs. Spruce straightened herself up, patted her ample bosom 
with one hand, and threw her bonnet-strings still further back, 

“Kitty’s a good lass,” she said, “though a bit mettlesome 
and wild; but I'm not saying anything again her. The Lord 
forbid that I should run down my own flesh and blood! An’ 
she’s better than most gels of her age. I wouldn’t grudge her 
a bit of fun while she’s got it in her, — Heaven knows it’ll be 
soon gone out of her when she marries, which nat’rally she will 
do, sooner or later. Anyhow, she’s all I’ve got, — which is a 
marvel how the Lord deals with some of us, when you see a 
little chidester of a woman like Adam Frost’s wife with fifteen 
boys and girls, and me with only one nesh maid.” 

Walden was silent. He was not disposed to argue on such 
marvels of the Lord’s way, as resulted in endowing one family 
with fifteen children, and the other with only a single sprout, 
such as was accorded to the righteous Jephthah, judge of 
Israel. 

“ Howsomever,” continued Mrs. Spruce, “Kitty’s welcome 


God’s Good Man 


29 


to jump round the Maypole till she’s wore her last pair of 
boots out, if so be it’s your wish, Mr. Walden, — and many 
thanks to you, sir, for all your kindness to her ! ” 

“ Don’t mention it, Mrs. Spruce!” said Walden amicably, 
and then, determining to bring the worthy woman sharply 
round to the real object of her visit, he gave a side-glance at 
the clock. “Is there anything you want me to do for you 
this morning? I’m rather busy ” 

“Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure, sir, for troubling you at 
all ! — knowin’ as I do that what with the moithering old folks 
and the maupsing young ones, your ’ands is always full. But 
when I got the letter this morning, I says to my husband, 
William — ‘ William/ says I, very loud, for the poor creature’s 
growing so deaf that by and by I shall be usin’ a p’lice whistle 
to make him ’ear me — £ William/ says I, ‘there is only one 
man in this village who’s got the right to give advice when 
advice is asked for. Of course there’s no call for us to follow 
advice, even when we gets it, — howsomever, it’s only respect- 
able for decent church-going folks to see the minister of the 
parish whenever there’s any fear of our makin’ a slip of our 
souls and go in’ wrong. Therefore, William/ says I, shaking 
him by ^he arm to make the poor silly fool understand me, 
* it’s to Passon Walden I’m goin’ this mornin’ with this letter, 
« — to Passon Walden, d’ye ’ear?’ And he nodded his head 
wise-like, for all the world as though there were a bit of sense 
in it, (which there ain’t), and agrees with me; — for the Lord 
knows, if William doesn’t, that it may make an awsome change 
for him as well as for me. And I do confess I’ve been took 
back.” 

Following as best he could the entangled thread of the 
estimable lady’s discourse, Walden grasped the fact, albeit 
vaguely, that some unexpected letter with unexpected news in 
it had arrived to trouble the Spruces’ domestic peace. Sup- 
pressing a slight yawn, he endeavoured to assume the proper 
show of interest which every village parson is expected to 
display on the shortest notice concerning any subject, from 
the birth of the latest baby parishioner, to the death of the 
earliest sucking pig. 

“I’m sorry you’re in trouble, Mrs. Spruce,” he said kindly; 
“What letter are you speaking of? You see I don’t quite 
understand ” 

“ Which it’s not to be expected you should, sir ! ” replied 
Mrs. Spruce with an air of triumph, — “ Considerin’ as you 


30 


God’s Good Man 


wern’t here when she left, and the Manor has been what yon 
may call a stately ’ome of England deserted as most stately 
*omes are, for more’n ten years, you couldn’t be expected to 
understand ! ” 

The Reverend John looked as he felt, completely mystified. 
He ‘ wasn’t here when she left.’ Who was ‘she ’ ? With all 
his naturally sweet temper he began to feel slightly irritated. 

“ Really, Mrs. Spruce,” he said, endeavouring to throw an 
inflection of sternness into his mellow voice, “ I must ask you 
to explain matters a little more clearly. I know that the 
Manor has been practically shut up ever since I’ve been here, 
• — that you are the housekeeper in charge, and that your 
husband is woodman or forester there, — but beyond this I 
know nothing. So you must not talk in riddles, Mrs. Spruce,” 
• — here his kind smile shone out again — “ Even as a boy I was 
never good at guessing them ! And I am getting old now.” 

“ So you are, sir — so you are ! ” agreed Mrs. Spruce 
Bympathetically ; “ And ’tis a shame for me to come worryin’ 
of you, — for no one more truly than myself can feel pity for 
the weariness of the flesh, when ’tis just a burden to the bones 
and no pleasure in the carryin’ of it, though you don’t put 
much of it on, Passon Walden, you don’t, I do assure you! 
But it’s Gospel truth that some folks wears thin like a knife, 
while others wears thick like a pig, and there is no stopping 
them, — either way bein’ the Lord’s will, — but I’m feelin’ real 
okkard myself to have put you about, Passon, only as I said, 
I’ve been took back, — and here’s the letter, sir, which if you 
will kindly glance your hi over, you will tell me whether I’ve 
done the right thing to call on my way down here and get in 
a couple of scrubbers at eighteen-pence a day, which is dear, 
but they won’t come for less, jest to get some of the rough dirt 
off the floors afore polishin’, which polishin’ will have to be 
done whether we will or no, for the boards are solid oak, and 
bein’ ancient take the shine quickly, which is a mercy, for this 
day week is none too far off, seein’ all that’s put upon me 
suddint.” 

Here, being short of breath, she paused, and fumbling in a 
large black calico pocket which hung loosely at her side, 
attached to her ample waist by a string, she drew out with 
great care a rather large, square-looking missive, and then 
rising from her chair with much fluttering of her black gown 
and mysterious creaking sound, as of tight under- wear strained 
to breaking point, she held it out toward Walden, who had. 


God’s Good Man 


3 * 

during her last oratorical outburst unconsciously put his hand 
to his head in a daze of bewilderment. 

“ There is the letter sir,” she continued, in the tone of one 
who should say : ‘ There is the warrant for execution ’ — - 
“ ‘ Short and sweet/ as the farmer’s wife said when she ate the 
pig’s tail what dropped off while the animal was a-roastin’.” 

Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, 
Walden took the thick, creamy-white object she offered and 
found himself considering it with a curious disfavour. It 
was a strictly ‘fashionable’ make of envelope, and was ad- 
dressed in a particularly bold and assertive hand-writing to 

Mrs. Spruce, 

Housekeeper, 

Abbot’s Manor, 

St. Rest. 

Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows: 

“Miss Yancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will 
arrive at Abbot’s Manor on the 7th inst., to remain there in 
residence. Mrs. Spruce is requested to engage the necessary 
household servants, as Miss Vancourt will bring none except 
the groom in charge of her two hunters.” 

Over and over again Walden read this curt and common- 
place note, with a sense of irritation which he knew was 
perfectly absurd, but which, nevertheless, defied all reason. 
The paper on which it was written was thick and satiny, — 
and there was a faint artificial odour of violets about it which 
annoyed him. He hated scented notepaper. Deliberately he 
replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a moment as 
he again studied the superscription, he addressed the ex- 
pectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was wait- 
ing for him to speak. 

“Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don’t think you need any advice 
from me on such a simple matter as this,” he said slowly. 
“ Your duty is quite plain. You must obey orders. Miss 
Yancourt is, I suppose, the mistress of Abbot’s Manor? ” 

“ She is, sir, — of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia ” 

“Miss what? ” interrupted Walden, with a sudden light- 

ening of his dark blue eyes. 

“ Maryllia, sir. It is a kind of family name, pronounced 
‘ Ma — rill — yer,’ ” explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable 
pomposity; “Many folks never gets it right — it wants 
knowledge and practice. But if you remember the pictures 
in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may call to mind one of 


32 


God’s Good Man 


the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a vi’let velvet 
ridin’ dress and holdin’ a huntin’ crop, and the name under- 
neath is ‘ Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt ’ and it was after 
her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, .rollin’ 
the two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to 
make a name what none of his forebears had ever had. He 
was a queer man, the old Squire — he wouldn’t a-cared whether 
the name was Christian or heathen.” 

“ I suppose not,” said the Reverend John carelessly, rising 
and pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture ; 
whereupon Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood ( at attention/ her 
loosened bonnet-strings flying and her large black calico 
pocket well in evidence to the front of her skirt. 

“ Here’s your letter, Mrs. Spruce ; ” and as she took it from 
his hand with a curtsey he continued : “ There is evidently 
nothing for it but to get the house in order by the day ap- 
pointed and do your best to please the lady. I can quite 
understand that you feel a little worried at having to prepare 
everything so quickly and unexpectedly, — but after all, you 
must have often thought that Miss Vancourt’s return to her 
old home was likely to happen at any time.” 

“ Which I never did, sir ! ” declared Mrs. Spruce emphatic- 
ally, “No, sir, never! For when the old Squire died, she 
was jest a slip of fifteen and her uncle, the Squire’s own twin 
brother, what had married an American heiress with somethin’ 
like a hundred million of money, so I’m told, took her straight 
away and adopted her like, and the reg’ler pay for keepin’ up 
the Manor and grounds has been sent to us through a Bank, 
and so far we’ve got nothin’ to complain of bein’ all strictly 
honourable both ways, but of Miss Yancourt we never heard 
a thing. And Mr. Oliver Leach he is the agent of the prop- 
erty, and he ain’t never said a word, — and we think, me and 
my husband, that he don’t know nothin’ of her cornin’ back, 
and should we tell him, sir? Or would you reckon that we’d 
better keep a still tongue in our heads till she do come? For 
there’s no knowin’ why or wherefore she’s cornin’, — though we 
did hear her poor uncle died two years ago, and we wondered 
where she and her aunt with the hundred million was got to — • 
but mebbe she’ll change her mind and not come, after all ? ” 

“ I should certainly not count upon that, if I were you, Mrs. 
Spruce,” said Walden decisively; “Your business is to keep 
everything in order for the lady’s arrival; but I don’t think, — 
I really don’t think, you are at all bound to inform Mr. Oliver 
Leach of the matter. He will no doubt find out for himself 


God’s Good Man 


33 


or receive his orders direct from Miss Vancourt.” Here he 
paused. “ How old did you say she was when she went away 
from home ? ” 

“ Fifteen, sir. That was nigh eleven years ago, — just one 
week after the Squire’s funeral, and a year afore you came 
here, sir. She’s gettin’ on for seven-and-twenty now.” 

“ Quite a woman, then,” said Walden lightly; “ Old enough 
to know her own mind at any rate. Do you remember her ? ” 

“ Perfectly well, sir, — a little flitterin’ creature all eyes and 
hair, with a saucy way of tossin’ her curls about, and a trick 
of singin’ and shoutin’ all over the place. She used to climb 
the pine trees and sit in them and pelt her father with the 
cones. Oh, yes, sir, she was a terrible child to rule, and it’s 
Gospel truth there was no ruling her, for the governesses came 
and went like the seasons, one in, t’other out. Ay, but the 
Lord knows I’ll never forget the scream she gave when the 
Squire was brought home from the hunting field stone dead ! ” 

Here John Walden turned his head towards her with an air 
of more interest than he had yet shown. 

“ Ah ! — How was that ? ” he enquired. 

“ He was killed jumpin’ a fence ; ” went on Mrs. Spruce ; 
“A fine, handsome gentleman, — they say he’d been wild in 
his youth ; anyhow he got married in London to a great Court 
beauty, so I’ve been told. And after the wedding, they went 
travelling all over the world for a year and a half, and just 
when they was expected ’ome Mrs. Vancourt died with the 
birth of the child, and he and the baby and the nurses all came 
back here and he never stirred away again himself 
till death took him at full gallop, — which is ’ow he always 
wished to die. But poor Miss Maryllia — ” And Mrs. Spruce 
sighed dolefully — “’Twas hard on her, seein’ him ride ofi so 
gay and v7ell and cheery in the early mornin’ to be brought 
borne afore noon a corpse! Ay, it was an awsome visitation 
of the Lord ! Often when the wind goes wimblin’ through the 
pines near the house I think I ’ear her shriek now, — ay, sir !— 
it was like the cry of somethin’ as was havin’ its heart tore 
out ! ” 

Walden stood very silent, listening. This narrative was 
new to him, and even Mrs. Spruce’s manner of relating it was 
not without a certain rough eloquence. The ancient history 
of the Vancourts he knew as well as he knew the priceless 
archaeological value of their old Manor-house as a perfect gem 
of unspoilt Tudor architecture, — but though he had traced 
the descent of the family from Robert Priaulx de Vaignecourt 


34 


God’s Good Man 


of the twelfth century and his brother Osmonde Priaulx de 
Vaignecourt who had, it was rumoured, founded a monastery 
in the neighbourhood, and had died during a pilgrimage to 
the Holy Land, he had ceased to follow the genealogical tree 
with much attention or interest when the old Norman name 
of De Vaignecourt had degenerated into De Vincourt and 
finally in the times of James i. had settled down into Vancourt. 
Yet there was a touch of old-world tragedy in Mrs. Spruce’s 
modern history of the young girl’s shriek when she found her- 
self suddenly fatherless on that fatal hunting morning. 

“ And now,” continued Mrs. Spruce, coaxing one bonnet- 
string at a time off each portly shoulder with considerable 
difficulty; “I s’pose I must be goin’, Passon Walden, and 
thank you kindly for all ! It’s a great weight off my mind to 
have told you just what’s ’appened, an’ the changes likely to 
come off, and I do assure you I’m of your opinion, Passon, in 
letting Oliver Leach shift for himself, for if so be Miss 
Vancourt has the will of her own she had when she was a gel, 
I shouldn’t wonder if there was rough times in store for him ! 
But the Lord only knows what may chance to all of us ! ” and 
here she heaved another dismal sigh as she tied the refractory 
bonnet-strings into a bow under her fat chin. “It’s right- 
down sinful of me to be wishin’ rough times to any man, seem’ 
I’m likely in for them myself, for a person’s bound to be dif- 
ferent at nigh seven-and-twenty to what she was at fifteen, 
and the modern ways of leddies ain’t old ways, the Lord be 
merciful to us all ! And I do confess, Passon, it’s a bit upset- 
tin’ at my time of life to think as how I’ve lived in Abbot’s 
Manor all these years, and now for all I can tell, me and 
William may have to shift. And where we’ll go, the Lord 
only knows ! ” 

“Now don’t anticipate misfortune, Mrs. Spruce!” said 
Walden, beginning to shake off the indescribable feeling of 
annoyance against which he had been fighting for the past 
few minutes and resuming his usual quiet air of cheerfulness ; 
“ Miss Vancourt is not likely to dismiss you unless you offend 
her. The great thing is to avoid offence, — and to do even 
more than your strict duty in making her old home look its 

best and brightest for her return and ” Here he hesitated 

for a moment, then went on “ Of course if I can do any- 

thing to help you, I will.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I’m sure most kindly,” said Mrs. Spruce 
curtseying two or three times in a voluminous overflow of 
gratitude. “I shall take the liberty of asking you to step 


God’s Good Man 


35 


up during the week, to see how things appears to you yourself. 
And as for servants, there’s no gels old enough at the school 
for servants, so I’ll he goin’ to Riversford with the carrier’s 
cart to-morrow to see what I can do. Ah, it’s an awsome 
mission I’m goin’ on; there ain’t no gels to be got of the 
old kind, as far as I can make out. They all wants to be 
fine leddies nowadays and marry ’Merican millionaires.” 

“Not quite so bad as that, I think, Mrs. Spruce!” laughed 
Walden, holding open the door of the study for her to pass out, 
as a broad hint that the interview must be considered at an 
end. — “ There are plenty of good, industrious, intelligent girls 
in England ready and willing to enter domestic service, if we 
make it worth their while, — and I’m sure no one can teach you 
anything in that line ! Good-morning, Mrs. Spruce ! ” 

“ Good-morning, sir, — and you’ll step up to the Manor when 
convenient some afternoon ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it. Whenever convenient to your- 
self, Mrs. Spruce.” 

Mrs. Spruce curtseyed again at the respect for her own 
importance which was implied in Walden’s last sentence, and 
slowly sidled out, the ‘ Passon ’ watching her with a smile as 
she trotted down the passage from his study to a door which 
led to the kitchen and basement. 

“ Now she’ll go and tell all her story again to Hester and 
the cook,” he said to himself ; “ And how she will enjoy herself 
to be sure! Bless the woman, what a tongue she has! No 
wonder her husband is deaf ! ” 

He re-seated himself at his desk, and taking up a bundle of 
accounts connected with the church and the school, tried to fix 
his attention on them, but in vain. His mind wandered. He 
was obliged to own to himself that he was unreasonably irri- 
tated at the news that Abbot’s Manor, which had been so long 
a sort of unoccupied 4 show ’ house, was again to be inhab- 
ited, — and by one who was its rightful owner too. Ever since 
he had bought the living of St. Rest he had been accustomed 
to take many solitary walks through the lovely woods sur- 
rounding the Vancourts’ residence, without any fear of being 
considered a trespasser, — and he had even strolled through the 
wide, old-fashioned gardens with as little restraint as though 
they had belonged to himself, Mrs. Spruce, the housekeeper, 
being the last person in the world to forbid her minister to 
enter wherever he would. He had passed long hours of de- 
lightful research in the old library, and many afternoons of 
meditation in the picture gallery, where the portrait of th$ 


God’s Good Man 


t 


36 

lady in the ‘vi’let velvet/ Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaigneceurt, 
had often canght his eye and charmed his fancy when the set- 
ting snn had illumined its rich colouring and had given life 
to the face, half-petulant, half-sweet, which pouted forth from 
the old canvas like a rose with light on its petals. Now all 
these pleasant rambles were finished. The mistress of Abbot’s 
Manor would certainly object to a wandering parson in her 
house and grounds. Probably she was a very imperious, dis- 
agreeable young woman, — full of the light scorn, lack of senti- 
ment and cheap atheism common to the i smart ’ lady of a 
decadent period, and if it were true that she had been for so 
many years in the charge of an American aunt with a hun- 
dred millions/ the chances were ten to one that she would be 
an exceedingly unpleasant neighbour. 

He gave a short impatient sigh. 

“ Ah, well ! I only hope she will put a stop to the felling 
of the fine old trees in her domain,” he said half aloud, — • 
“If no one else in> the village has the pluck to draw her 
attention to the depredations of Oliver Leach, I will. But, 
so far as other matters go, — my walks in the Manor woods 
are ended ! Yes, Nebbie ! ” and he gently patted the head of 
the faithful animal, who, with inborn sagacity instinctively 
guessing that his master was somewhat annoyed, was clamber- 
ing with caressing forepaws against his knee. “ Our rambles 
by the big elms and silvery birches and under the beautiful 
tall pines are over, Nebbie! and we shouldn’t be human if we 
weren’t just a trifle sorry! Sir Morton Pippitt is bad enough 
as a neighbour, but he’s a good three miles off at Badsworth 
Hall, thank Heaven ! — whereas Abbot’s Manor is but a quarter 
of an hour’s walk from this gate. We’ve had pleasant times 
in the dear old-fashioned gardens, Nebbie, you and I, but it’s 
all over ! The mistress of the Manor is coming home, — and 
Pm positively certain, Nebbie, — yes, old boy! — positively cer- 
tain that we shall both detest her ! ” 


m 


T^then England’s great Queen, Victoria the Good* was 
still enjoying her first happy years of wedded life, 
and society, under her gentle sway, was less ostentatious and 
much more sincere in its code of ethics than it is nowadays, 
the village of St. Rest, together with the adjacent post-town 
of Riversford, enjoyed considerable importance in county 
chronicles. Very great ‘county personages’ were daily to be 
seen comporting themselves quite simply among their own 
tenantry, and the Riversford Hunt Ball annually gathered 
together a veritable galaxy of ‘ fair women and brave men ’ 
who loved their ancestral homes better than all the dazzle 
and movement of town, and who possessed for the most part 
that ‘ sweet content ’ which gives strength to the body and 
elasticity to the mind. There was then a natural gaiety and 
spontaneous cheerfulness in English country life that made 
such a life good for human happiness; and the jolly Squires 
who with their ‘dames’ kept open house and celebrated 
Harvest Home and Christmas Festival with all the buoyancy 
and vigour of a sane and healthful manhood undeteriorated 
by any sickly taint of morbid pessimism and indifferent iner- 
tia, were the beneficent rulers of a merrier rural population 
than has ever been seen since their day. Squire Vancourt the 
elder, grandfather of the present heiress of Abbot’s Manor, 
had been a splendid specimen of ‘ the fine old English gentle- 
man, all of the olden time,’ and his wife, one of the handsom- 
est, as well as one of the kindest-hearted women that ever 
lived, had been justly proud of her husband, devoted to her 
children, and a true friend and benefactress to the neighbour- 
hood. Her four sons, two of whom were twins, all great 
strapping lads, built on their vigorous father’s model, were 
considered the best-looking young men in the county, and by 
their fond mother were judged as the best-hearted; but, as it 
often happens. Nature was freakish in their regard, and turned 
them all out wild colts of a baser breed than might have been 
expected from their unsullied parentage. The eldest took to 
hard drinking and was killed at steeple-chasing; the second 

37 


38 


God’s Good Man 


was drowned while bathing; one of the twins, named Freder- 
ick, the younger by a few minutes, after nearly falling into 
unnameable depths of degradation by gambling with certain 
‘noble and exalted’ personages of renown, saved himself, as 
it were, by the skin of his teeth, through marriage with a 
rich American girl whose father was blessed with unlimited 
oil-mines. He was thereby enabled to wallow in wealth with 
an impaired digestion and shattered nervous power, while 
capricious Fate played him her usual trick in her usual way 
by denying him any heirs to his married millions. His first- 
born brother, Robert, wedded for love, and chose as his mate a 
beautiful girl without a penny, whose grace and charm had 
dazzled the London world of fashion for about two seasons, 
and she had died at the age of twenty in giving birth to her 
first child, the girl whom her father had named Maryllia. 

All these chances and changes of life, however, occurring 
to the leading family of the neighbourhood had left very little 
mark on St. Rest, which drowsed under the light shadow of 
the eastern hills by its clear flowing river, very much as it had 
always drowsed in the old days, and very much as it would 
always do even if London and Paris were consumed by unsus- 
pected volcanoes. The memory of the first ‘ old Squire/ — who 
died peacefully in his bed all alone, his wife having passed 
away two years before him, and his two living twin sons being 
absent, — was frequently mixed with stories of the other ‘ old 
Squire ’ Robert, the elder twin, who was killed in the hunting 
field, — and indeed it often happened that some of the more 
ancient and garrulous villagers were not at all sure as to 
which was which. The Manor had been shut up for ten 
years, — the Manor ‘ family 9 had not been heard of during all 
that period, and the tenantry’s recollection of their late land- 
lord, as well as of his one daughter, was more vague and con- 
fused than authentic. The place had been ‘managed’ and 
the cottage rents collected by the detested agent Oliver Leach, 
a fact which did not sweeten such remembrance of the Van- 
courts as still existed in the minds of the people. 

However, nothing in the general aspect and mental attitude 
of the village had altered very much since the early thirties, 
except the church. That from a mere ruin, had under John 
Walden’s incumbency become a gem of architecture, so unique 
and perfect as to be the wonder and admiration of all who 
beheld it, and whereas in the early Victorian reign a few peo- 
ple stopped at Riversford because it was a county town and 
because there was an inn there where they could put up thei* 


God’s Gooa Man 


39 


horses, so a few people now went to St. Rest, because there 
was a church there worth looking at. They came by train to 
Riversford, where the railway line stopped, and then took car- 
riage or cycled the seven miles between that town and St. Rest 
to see the church; and having seen it, promptly went back 
again. For one of the great charms of the little village hid- 
den under the hills was that no tourist could stay a night in 
it, unless he or she took one spare room — there was only one — 
at the small public-house which sneaked away up round a 
corner of the street under an archway of ivy, and pushed its 
old gables through the dark enshrouding leaves with a half- 
surprised, half -propitiatory air, as though somewhat ashamed 
of its own existence. With the exception of this one room in 
this one public-house, there was no accommodation for vis- 
itors. Never will the rash cyclist who ventured once to appeal 
to the sexton’s wife for rooms in her cottage, forget the 
brusqueness of his reception : 

“Rooms! ” And Mrs. Frost, setting her arms well akimbo, 
surveyed the enquirer scornfully through an open doorway, 
rendered doubly inviting by the wealth of roses clambering 
round it. “Be off, young man! Where was you a-comin’ 
to? D’ye think a woman wi’ fifteen great boys and girls in 
an’ out of the ’ouse all day, ’as rooms for payin’ guests ! ” 
And here Mrs. Frost, snorting at the air in irrepressible dis- 
dain, actually snapped her fingers in her would-be lodger’s 
face. “ Rooms indeed ! Go to Brighting ! ” 

Whereupon the abashed wheelman went, — whether to 
Brighton, as the irate lady suggested, or to a warmer place 
unmentionable, history sayeth not. But St. Rest remained, 
as its name implied, restful, — and the barbaric yell of the 
cheap tripper, together with the equally barbaric scream of the 
cheap tripper’s ‘ young lady’ echoed chiefly through modern- 
ised and vulgarised Riversford, where there were tea-rooms 
and stuffy eating-houses and bad open-air concerts, such as 
trippers and their ‘ ladies’ delight in, — and seldom disturbed ' 
the tranquil charm of the tiny mediaeval village dear to a cer- 
tain few scholars, poets and antiquarians who, through John 
Walden, had gradually become acquainted with this ‘ priceless 
bit ’ as they termed it, of real ‘ old ’ England and who almost 
feared to mention its existence even in a whisper, lest it 
should be ‘swarmed over’ by enquiring Yankees, searching 
for those everlasting ancestors who all managed so cleverly to 
cross the sea together in one boat, the Mayflower. 

There is something truly pathetic as well as droll in the 


God’s Good Man 


40 

anxiety of every true American to prove himself or herself an 
offshoot from some old British root of honour or nobility. It 
would be cruel to laugh at this instinct, for after all it is only 
the passionate longing of the Prodigal Son who, having eaten 
of the husks that the swine did eat, experienced such an indi- 
gestion at last, that he said ‘ I will arise and go to my father/ 
And it is quite possible that an aspiring Trans- Atlantic mil- 
lionaire yearning for descent more than dollars, would have 
managed to find tracks of a Mayflower pedigree in St. Rest, a 
place of such antiquity as to be able to boast a chivalric 6 roll 
of honour 9 once kept in the private museum at Badsworth 
Hall before the Badsworth family became extinct, but now, 
thanks to Walden, rescued from the modern clutch of the Hall’s 
present proprietor, Sir Morton Pippitt, and carefully pre- 
served in an iron box locked up in the church, along with 
other documents of value belonging to the neighbourhood. 
On this were inscribed the names of such English gentlemen 
once resident in the district, who had held certain possessions 
in France at the accession of Henry n. in 1154. Besides the 
‘ roll of honour 9 there were other valuable records having to 
do with the Anglo-French campaigns in the time of King 
John, and much concerning those persons of St. Rest and 
Riversford who took part in the Wars of the Barons. 

Whatever there was of curious or interesting matter respect- 
ing the village and its surroundings had been patiently fer- 
reted out by John Walden, who had purchased the living 
partly because he knew it to be a veritable mine for anti- 
quarian research, and one likely to afford him inexhaustible 
occupation and delight. But there were, of course, other 
reasons for his settling down in so remote a spot far from the 
busy haunts of men, — reasons which, to his own mind, were 
perfectly natural and simple, though on account of his innate 
habit of reticence, and disinclination to explain his motives to 
others, they were by some supposed to be mysterious. In his 
youth he had been one of the most brilliant and promising of 
University scholars, and all those who had assisted to fit him 
for his career in the Church, had expected great things of him. 
Some said he would be a Bishop before he was thirty; others 
considered that he would probably content himself with being 
the most intellectual and incisive preacher of his time. But 
he turned out to be neither one nor the other. A certain 
Henry Arthur Brent, his fellow student at College and five 
years his senior, had, with apparent ease, outstripped him in 
the race for honour, though lacking in all such exceptional 


God’s Good Man 


V 

mental ability as be possessed, and was now Bishop of the 
very diocese in which he had his little living. University mei/ 
said he had 1 stood aside ’ in order to allow Brent to press 
more swiftly forward, but though this was a perfectly natural 
supposition on the part of those who knew something of Wal- 
den’s character, it was not correct. Walden at that time had 
only one object in life,— and this was to secure such name and 
fame, together with such worldly success as might delight and 
satisfy the only relative he had in the world, his sister, a beau- 
tiful and intelligent woman, full of an almost maternal ten- 
derness for him, and a sweet resignation to her own sad lot, 
which made her the victim of a slow and incurable disease. 
So long as she lived, her brother threw himself into his work 
with intensity and ardour; but when she died that impulse 
withered, as it were, at its very root. The world became empty 
for him, and he felt that from henceforth he would be utterly 
companionless. For what he had seen of modern women, 
modern marriage and modern ways of life, did not tempt him 
to rashly seek refuge for his heart’s solitude in matrimony. 
Almost immediately following the loss of his sister, an uncle 
of whom he had known very little, died suddenly, leaving him 
a considerably large fortune. As soon as he came into posses- 
sion of this unexpected wealth, he disappeared at once from 
the scene of his former labours, — the pretty old house in the 
University town, with its great cedars sloping to the river and 
its hallowed memories of the sister he had so dearly loved, was 
sold by private treaty, — his voice was heard no more in London 
pulpits, where it had begun to carry weight and influence, — 
and he managed to obtain the then vacant and obscure living 
of St. Best, the purchase of the advowson being effected, so it 
was said, privately through the good offices of his quondam 
college friend. Bishop Brent. And at St. Rest he had re- 
mained, apparently well contented with the very simple and 
monotonous round of duty it offered. 

When he had first arrived there, he found that the church 
consisted of some thick stone walls of the early Norman 
period, built on a cruciform plan, the stones being all uni- 
formly wrought and close- jointed, — together with a beautiful 
ruined chancel divided from the main body of the building by 
massive columns, which supported on their capitals the frag- 
ments of lofty arches indicative of an architectural transition 
from the Norman to the Early Pointed English style. There 
were also the hollow slits of several lancet windows, and one 
almost perfect pierced circular window to the east, elaborately 


42 


God’s Good Man 


carved with, traceries of natural fruit and foliage, which wera 
scarcely injured by the devastating mark of time. But rough 
and sacrilegious hands had been at work to spoil and deface the 
classic remains of the time-worn edifice, and some of the 
lancet windows had been actually hewn out and widened to 
admit of the insertion of modern timber props which awk- 
wardly supported a hideous galvanised iron roof, on the top of 
which was erected a kind of tin hen-coop in which a sharp bell 
clanged with irritating rapidity for Sunday service. Outside, 
the building was thus rendered grotesquely incongruous, — 
inside it was almost blasphemous in its rank ugliness. There 
were several rows of narrow pews made of common painted 
deal, — there was a brown stone font and a light pine-wood 
pulpit — a small harmonium stood in one corner, festooned by 
a faded red woollen curtain, and a general air of the cheap 
upholsterer and jerry-builder hovered over the whole concern. 
And the new incumbent, gazing aghast at the scene, was tri- 
umphantly informed that “ Sir Morton Pippitt had been gen- 
erous enough to roof and 6 restore 9 the church in this artistic 
manner out of his own pocket, for the comfort of the villa- 
gers,” and moreover that he actually condescended to attend 
Divine service under the galvanised iron roof which he had so 
liberally erected. May, it had been even known that Sir Mor- 
ton had on one or two occasions himself read the Lessons in 
the absence of the late rector, who was subject to sore throats 
-and was constantly compelled to call in outside assistance. 

To all this information John Walden said nothing. He 
was not concerned with Sir Morton Pippitt or any other 
county magnate in the management of his own affairs. A 
fortnight after his arrival he quietly announced to his con- 
gregation that the church was about to be entirely restored 
according to its original lines of architecture, and that a tem- 
porary building would be erected on his, Walden’s, own land 
for the accommodation of the people during such time as the 
restoration should be in progress. This announcement 
brought about Walden’s first acquaintance with his richest 
neighbour, Sir Morton Pippitt. That gentleman having been 
accustomed to have his own way in everything concerning St. 
Best, for a considerable time, straightway wrote, expressing 
his ‘ surprise and indignation ’ at the mere assumption that 
any restoration was required for the church beyond what he, 
Sir Morton, had effected at his own expense. The number of 
parishioners was exceedingly small, — too small to warrant any 
further expenditure for enlarging a place of worship which 


God’s Good Man 


43 


(considering that some years ago it had been a mere roofless 
ruin, and that the people had been compelled to walk or drive 
to River sford in order to attend church at all on Sundays) 
Sir Morton thought was now very comfortable and satisfac- 
tory. . In fact, Sir Morton concluded, “ Mr. Walden would be 
very ill-advised if he made any attempt to raise money for 
such a useless purpose as the 1 entire restoration 9 of the 
church of St. Rest, and Mr. Walden might as well he at once 
made aware that Sir Morton himself would not give a penny 
towards it.” To which somewhat rambling and heated epistle 
John Walden replied with civil stiffness as follows: 

“ The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Sir 
Morton Pippitt, and in answer to his letter begs to say that 
he has no intention of raising any subscription to defray the 
cost of restoring the church, which in its present condition is 
totally unfit for Divine service. Having secured the living, 
Mr. Walden will make the restoration the object of his own 
personal care, and will also be pleased to reimburse Sir 
Morton Pippitt for any outlay to which he may have been put 
in erecting the galvanised roof and other accessories for the 
immediate convenience of the parishioners who have, he 
understands, already expressed their sense of obligation to Sir 
Morton for kindly providing them with such temporary shelter 
from the changes of the weather as seemed to be humanely 
necessary.” 

This calm epistle when received at Badsworth Hall, had the 
effect of a sudden stiff breeze on the surface of hitherto quiet 
waters. Sir Morton Pippitt in a brand-new tweed suit sur- 
mounted by a very high, clean, stiff shirt-collar, was sitting at 
breakfast in what was formerly known as the ‘ great Refec- 
tory/ a memory of the days when Badsworth had been a large 
and important monastery, but which was now turned into a 
modern-antique dining-room, — and as he read, with the aid of 
his gold-rimmed spectacles, the curt, chill, severely polite 
letter of the 1 new parson 9 he flew into a sudden violent pas- 
sion. 

“ Damn the fellow ! 99 he spluttered, jumping up in haste 
and striking out an arm towards the very direction in which a 
mild young footman was just approaching him with a bottle of 
Worcester sauce on a tray, — “Damn him!” 

The footman staggered back in terror, and the Worcester 
sauce reeled over drunkenly on to the carpet. 

“ There you go, you clumsy, gaping idiot ! ” roared Sir 
Morton, growing purple with increasing fury. “Tabitha!” 


44 


God’s Good Man 


And here he whirled round on his only daughter, an angular 
and severely-visaged spinster ; “ Look at this fool ! — this staring 
ape! All the sauce on the carpet! Wish he had to pay for 
it! He’ll take an hour to get a cloth and wipe it up! Why 
did you engage such a damned ass, eh ? ” 

Miss Tabitha preserved a prudent silence, seeing that the 
butler, a serious-looking personage with a resigned-to-ill-usage 
demeanour, was already engaged in assisting the hapless foot- 
man to remove the remains of the spilt condiment from the 
offended gaze of his irate master. 

“ Like his damned impudence ! n broke out Sir Morton 
again, resuming with some reluctance his seat at the breakfast 
table, and chopping at the fried bacon on his plate till the 
harder bits flew far and wide, — ■“ ‘ Happy to reimburse me ! ’• — 
the snivelling puppy ! Why the devil he was allowed to sneak 
into this living, I don’t know! The private purchase of 
advowsons is a scandal — a disgraceful scandal! Any Tom, 
Dick or Harry can get a friend to buy him a benefice in 
which to make himself a nuisance! Done under the rose, — 
and called a ‘ presentation ’ ! All humbug and hypocrisy ! 
That’s why we get impudent dogs like this beast Walden 
settling down in a neighbourhood whether we like it or not ! ” 

Miss Tabitha munched some toast slowly with a delicate 
regard for her front teeth, which had cost money. There was 
no one in the room to suggest to Sir Morton that it is a pity 
some law is not in progress to prevent the purchase of historic 
houses by vulgar and illiterate persons of no family; — which 
would be far more a benefit to the land at large than the sup- 
pression of privately purchased benefices. For the chan«es 
are ten to one that the ordained minister, who, by his own 
choice secures a Church living for himself, is likely at least 
to be a well-educated gentleman, interested in the work he ha9 
himself elected to do, — whereas the illiterate individual who 
buys an historic house simply for self-glorification, will prob- 
ably be no more than a mere petty and pompous tyrant over 
the district which that particular house dominates. 

Badsworth Hall, a fine sixteenth-century pile, had, through 
the reckless racing and gambling propensities of the last heir, 
fallen into the hands of the Jews. On the fortunate demise 
of the young gentleman who had brought it to this untimely 
end, it was put up for sale with all its contents. And Sir 
Morton Pippitt, — a rich colonial, whose forebears were en- 
tirely undistinguished, but who had made a large fortune by a 
bone-melting business, which converted the hoofs, horns and 


God’s Good Man 


45 


bones of defunct animals into a convenient mixture wherewith 
to make buttons and other useful articles of hardware, bought 
it, as the saying goes, ‘ for a mere song/ Through his easy 
purchase he became possessed of the Badsworth ancestry, as 
shown in their pictures hanging on the dining-room walls and 
in the long oak-panelled picture gallery. Lady Madeline 
Badsworth, famous for her beauty in some remote, and chival- 
rous past, gazed down at Sir Morton while he sat at meals, 
suggesting to the imaginative beholder a world of scorn in her 
lovely painted eyes, — and a heroic young Badsworth who had 
perished at the battle of Marston Moor, stood proudly out of 
one of the dark canvases, his gauntleted hand on the hilt of 
his sword and a smile of pained wrath on his lips, as one who 
should say, beholding the new possessor of his ancient home 
* To such base uses must we come at last ! 7 

Surrounded by gold-framed Badsworths, young and old, Sir 
Morton ate his fried bacon and ‘ swilled 7 his tea, with a con- 
siderable noise in swallowing, getting gradually redder in the 
face as he proceeded with his meal. He was by no means a 
bad-looking old gentleman, — his sixty years sat lightly upon 
his broad shoulders, and he was tall and well set up, though 
somewhat too stout in what may be politely called the ‘ lower 
chest 7 direction. His face was plump, florid and clean-shaven, 
and what hair he still possessed was of a pleasantly-bright sil- 
ver hue. The first impression he created was always one of 
kindness and benevolence, — the hearts of women especially 
invariably went out to him, and murmurs of 1 What a dear old 
man ! 7 and ‘ What a darling old man ! 7 frequently escaped 
lips feminine in softest accents. He was very courtly to 
women, — when he was not rude; and very kind to the poor, — 
when he was not mean. His moods were fluctuating; his 
rages violent; his temper obstinate. When he did not suc- 
ceed in getting his own way, his petulant sulks resembled 
those of a spoilt child put in a corner, only they lasted longer. 
There was one shop in Biversford which he had not entered 
for ten years, because its owner had ventured, with trembling 
respect, to contradict him on a small matter. Occasionally he 
could be quite the ‘dear darling old man’ his lady admirers 
judged him to be, — but after all, his servants knew him best. 
To them, ‘ Sir Morton was a caution/ And that is precisely 
what he was ; the definition entirely summed up his character. 
He had one great passion, — the desire to make himself ‘ the 7 
most important person in the county, and to be written about 
in the local paper, a hazy and often ungrammatical organ 


46 


God’s Good Man 


called ‘The Biversford Gazette/ If Sir Morton had a pig 
killed, the fact was duly notified to an admiring populace in 
the ‘Biversford Gazette/ If he took a prize in cabbages at 
the local vegetable and flower show, the ‘ Biversford Gazette ’ 
had a column about it. If he gave a tennis-party, there were 
two columns, describing all the dresses of the ladies, the prow- 
ess of the ‘ champions 3 and the ‘striking and jovial person- 
ality 9 of Sir Morton Pippitt. And if the fact of that ‘ strik- 
ing and jovial personality’ were not properly insisted upon. 
Sir Morton went himself to see the editor of the ‘ Biversford 
Gazette/ an illiterate tuft-hunting little man, — and nearly 
frightened him into fits. He had asserted himself in this 
kind of autocratic fashion ever since he had purchased Bads- 
worth, when he was still in his forties, — and it may be welt 
imagined that at the age of sixty he was not prepared to be 
thwarted, even in a matter wherein he had no real concern. 
The former rector of St. Best, an ailing, nervous and exceed- 
ingly poor creature, with a large family to keep, had been only 
too glad and ready to do anything Sir Morton Pippitt wished, 
for the sake of being invited to dine at the Hall once a week, — 
it was therefore a very unexpected and disagreeable experience 
for the imperious Bone-melter to learn that the new in- 
cumbent was not at all disposed to follow in the steps of his 
predecessor, but, on the contrary, was apparently going to 
insist on having his own way with as much emphasis as Sir 
Morton Pippitt himself. 

“ I shall soon bring that fellow to his senses/’ declared Sir 
Morton, on the eventful morning which first saw the gage of 
battle thrown down; “I shall teach him that, parson or no 
parson, he will have to respect my authority! God bless my 
soul ! Does he think I’m going to be dictated to at my time 
of life?” 

He addressed these observations to his daughter. Miss 
Tabitha Pippitt, but whether she heard them or not was 
scarcely apparent. At any rate, she did not answer. Having 
finished her breakfast, she pulled out some knitting from an 
embroidered bag hanging at her side and set her needles click- 
eting, while her father, redder in the face and more implacable 
of mood than ever, went out to see what he could do to save 
his galvanised iron roof from the hand of the spoiler. 

.But, as he might have known, if his irascibility had allowed 
him to weigh the pros and cons of the situation, his ‘ author- 
ity’ was of no avail. An angry letter to the Bishop of the 
diocese only drew forth a curt reply from the Bishop’s secre- 


God’s Good Man 


47 


tary to the effect that as the Reverend John Walden was now 
the possessor of the living: of St. Rest and had furthermore 
obtained a ‘ faculty 9 for the proper restoration of the church, 
which was to be carried out at the said John Walden’s own 
risk and personal expenditure, the matter was not open to any 
outside discussion. Whereat, Sir Morton’s fury became so 
excessive that he actually shut up Badsworth Hall and went 
away for a whole year, greatly to the relief of the editor of 
the 6 Riversford Gazette/ who was able to dismiss him with a 
comfortable paragraph, thus: 

“ Sir Morton Pippitt has left Badsworth Hall for a tour 
round the world. Miss Pippitt accompanies her distinguished 
father.” 

Then followed a spell of peace ; — and the restoration of the 
church at St. Rest was quietly proceeded with. Lovingly, 
and with tenderest care for every stone, every broken frag- 
ment, John Walden pieced together the ruined shrine of 
ancient days, and managed at last to trace and recover the 
whole of the original plan. It had never been a large build- 
ing, its proportions being about the same as those of Roslin 
Chapel, near Edinburgh. The task of restoration was costly, 
especially when carried out with such perfection and regard 
to detail, — but Walden grudged nothing to make it complete, 
and superintended the whole thing himself, rejecting all the 
semi-educated suggestions of the modern architect, and faith- 
fully following out the ideas of the particular period in which 
the church was originally designed by those to whom the 
building of a ‘ God’s House ’ was a work of solemn prayer and 
praise. The ancient stones were preserved, and wherever mod- 
em masonry was used, it was cunningly worked in to look as 
time-worn as the Norman walls, while the lancet windows 
were filled with genuine old stained glass purchased by degrees 
from different parts of England, each fragment being properly 
authenticated. A groined roof, simple yet noble in outline, 
covered in the building; ornamented with delicately rounded 
mouldings alternated with hollows so planned as to give the 
most forcible effects of light and shade according to the style 
of English Early Pointed work, and the only thing that was 
left incomplete was the pierced circular window above the 
chancel, which Walden sought to fill with stained glass of 
such indubitable antiquity and beauty of design that lie was 
only able to secure it bit by bit at long intervals. While en- 
gaged in collecting this, be judged it best to fill the window 
with ordinary clear glass rather than put in inferior stuff. 


God’s Good Man 


48 

For the chancel appeared to demand special reverence, from 
the nature of a wonderful discovery made in it during the 
work of restoration, — a discovery which greatly helped to sus- 
tain and confirm the name of both church and village as 4 St. 
Best/ and to entirely disprove the frequently-offered sugges- 
tion that it could ever have been meant for 4 St. East.’ And 
this is how the discovery happened. 

One never-to-be-forgotten morning when the workmen were 
hewing away at the floor of the chancel, one of their pick- 
axes came suddenly in contact with a hard substance which 
gave back a metallic echo when the blow of the implement 
came down upon it. Working with caution, and gradually 
clearing away a large quantity of loose stones, broken pieces 
of mosaic and earth, a curious iron handle was discovered 
attached to a large screw which was apparently embedded 
deep in the ground. Walden was at once informed of this 
strange 4 find* and hastened to the spot to examine the mys- 
terious object. He was not very long in determining its 
nature. 

44 This is some very ancient method of leverage,” he said, 
turning round to the workmen with an excitement he could 
barely conceal ; 44 There is something precious underneath in 
the ground, — something which can probably be raised by 
means of this handle and screw. Dig round it about a yard 
away from the centre, — loosen the earth gently — he very 
careful ! ” 

They obeyed; and all that day Walden stood watching them 
at work, his mind divided between hope and fear, and his 
spirit moved by the passionate exultation of the antiquary 
whose studies and researches are about to be rewarded with 
unexpected treasure. Towards sunset the men came upon 
a large oblong piece of what appeared to be alabaster, closely 
inlaid with pattens of worn gold and bearing on its surface 
the sculptured emblems of a cross, a drawn sword and a 
crown of laurel leaves intertwisted with thorns, the whole most 
elaborately wrought, and very little injured. As this slowly 
came to light, Walden summoned all hands to assist him in 
turning the great iron screw which now stood out upright, 
some three or four feet from the aperture they had been dig- 
ging. Wondering at his 4 fancy ’ as they termed it, they how- 
ever had full reliance on his proved knowledge of what he 
was about, and under his guidance they all applied themselves 
to the quaint and cumbrous iron handle which had been the 
first thing discovered, and with considerable difficulty began to 


God’s Good Man 


4 <; 


turn it round and round. As they proceeded laboriously in 
this task, while the screw creaked and groaned under the 
process with a noise as of splitting timber, all at once the 
oblong slab of alabaster moved, and rose upward about an 
inch. 

“To it, boys!” cried Walden, his eyes sparkling; “To it 
again, and harder ! We shall have it with us in an hour ! ” 

And truly, in somewhat less than an hour the strange old- 
world lever had lifted what it must often have lifted in a 
similar way in bygone years, — a magnificent and perfectly 
preserved sarcophagus, measuring some six or seven feet long 
by three feet wide, covered with exquisite carving at the sides, 
representing roses among thorns, the flowers having evidently 
at one time been centred with gems and which even now bore 
traces of gold. Round the lid there was some dim lettering 
which was scarcely discernible, — the lid itself was firmly 
closed and strongly cemented. 

Exclamations of wonder, admiration, and excitement broke 
from all who had been engaged in the work of excavation, and 
presently the whole village ran out to see the wonderful relic 
of a forgotten past, all chattering, all speculating, all staring, 
Walden alone stood silent; his head bared, — his hands 
clasped. He knew that only some great saint or holy recluse 
could have ever been so royally enshrined in ancient days, and 
the elaborate system of leverage used seemed to prove that 
the body laid within that wrought alabaster and gold must 
have been considered to be of that peculiar nature termed 
* miraculous/ and worthy to be lifted from its resting-place 
into the chancel on certain particular occasions for the 
homage and reverence of the people. The sun poured down 
upon the beautiful object lying there, — on the groups of 
workmen who, instinctively imitating Walden’s example, had 
bared their heads, — on the wrinkled worn faces of old village 
men and women, — on the bright waving locks of young girls, 
and the clear enquiring eyes of children, all gazing at the 
strange treasure-trove their ruined church had given up to the 
light of a modern day. Presently the chief workman asked 
Walden in a hushed voice: 

“ Shall we break it open, sir ? ” 

“No, — never!” replied Walden gently but firmly; “That 
would be sacrilege. We may not lightly disturb the dead! 
The ashes enshrined in this wonderful casket must be those of 
one who was dear to the old-time church. They shall rest in 
peace. And as this sarcophagus is evidently fixed by its lever* 


5 ° 


God’s Good Man 


age system exactly in the middle of the chancel, fronting the 
altar, we will let it remain there and occupy its own original 
place. The chancel could not have a grander ornament ! ” 

And so, in the middle of the chancel, between the altar and 
the steps which separated that part of the church from the 
main body of the building, the mysterious undated relic lay 
under the warm light of the eastern window, and people who 
were interested in antiquities came from far and near to see 
it, though they could make no more of it than Walden him- 
self had done. The cross and sword might possibly indicate 
martyrdom ; the laurels and thorn fame. Certainly there 
were no signs that the dumb occupant of that sealed coffer 
was a monarch of merely earthly power and state. When the 
alabaster came to be thoroughly cleansed and polished, part 
of the inscription could be deciphered in the following letters 
of worn gold: 

Sancta . vixit . Sancta obit . . 

In . coelum . sanctorum . . 
transmigravit . . . 

In Resurrectione Sanctorum 
resurget 

M . . Beatae . ma . . It . 

But to what perished identity these significant words applied 
remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was 
carefully searched, — every scrap of ancient history wherein the 
neighbourhood of St. Rest had ever been concerned was 
turned over and over by the patient and indefatigable John 
Walden, who followed up many suggestive tracks eagerly and 
lost them again when apparently just on the point of finding 
some sure clue, — till at last he gave up the problem in despair 
and contented himself and his parishioners by accepting the 
evident fact that in the old church at one tiine or another 
some saint or holy abbot had been buried, — hence the name 
of St. Rest or ‘ The Saint’s Rest/ which had become attached 
to the village. But at what exact period such saint or abbot 
had lived and died, was undiscoverable. 

When the restoration •£ the sacred shrine was completed, and 
an expectant congregation filled it to overflowing to assist at 
the solemn service of its re-dedication to the worship of God, 
not one among them all but was deeply impressed by the ap- 
pearance of the restored chancel, with its beautiful columns 
and delicate capitals, arching like a bower of protection over 
tk# altar, and over that wonderful white sarcophagus lying 


God’s Good Man 


51 


snow-like in the rays of the sun, which flashed clear on its 
stray bits of gold and broken incrustation of gems, sending a 
straight beam through the eastern window on the one word 
* Resurget ’ like a torch of hope from beyond the grave. 

Bishop Brent, Walden’s old college friend, came to perform 
the ceremony of consecration, and this was the first time the 
inhabitants of St. Best had seen a real Bishop for many years. 
Much excitement did his presence create in that quiet wood- 
land dell, the more especially as he proved to be a Bishop 
somewhat out of the common. Tall and attenuated in form, 
he had a face which might almost be called magnetic, so alive 
was its expression, — so intense and passionate was the light 
of the deep dark melancholy eyes that burned from under their 
shelving brows like lamps set in a high watch-tower of intel- 
lect. When he preached, his voice, with its deep mellow 
cadence, thrilled very strangely to the heart, — and every 
gesture, every turn of his head, expressed the activity of the 
keen soul pent up within his apparently frail body. The ser- 
mon he gave on the occasion of the re-dedication of the 
Church of St. Best was powerful and emotional, but scarcely 
orthodox — and therefore was not altogether pleasing to Sir 
Morton Pippitt. He chose as his text : " Behold I show you 
a mystery; we shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed;” 
and on this he expatiated, setting forth the joys of the spiritual 
life as opposed to the physical, — insisting on the positive cer- 
tainty of individual existence after death, and weaving into 
his discourse some remarks on the encoffined saint whose sar- 
cophagus had been unearthed from its long-hidden burial- 
place and set again where it had originally stood, in the mid- 
dle of the chancel. He spoke in hushed and solemn tones of 
the possibility of the holy spirit of that unknown one being 
present among them that day, helping them in their work, 
joining in their prayers of consecration and perhaps bestowing 
upon them additional blessing. At which statement, given 
with poetic earnestness and fervour. Sir Morton stared, 
breathed hard and murmured in his daughter’s ear “ A 
Boman ! The man is a Boman ! ” 

But notwithstanding Sir Morton Pippitt’s distaste for the 
manner in which the Bishop dealt with his subject, and his 
numerous allusions to saints in heaven and their probable 
guardianship of their friends on earth, the sermon was a 
deeply impressive one and lingered long in the memories of 
those who had heard it, softening thei» hearts, inspiring their 


52 


God’s Good Man 


souls, and awakening them to hopeful considerations of a 
happier end than the mere grave. 

Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had 
bought the living, and of these ten years three had been 
occupied in the restoration of the church, so that seven had 
elapsed since it had been consecrated. And during those 
seven years not once had Bishop Brent been seen again in St. 
Rest. He remained in the thoughts of the people as an in- 
definable association with whom they would fain have had 
more to do. Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties 
into the seventies, very little altered; — still upright, still in- 
flexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neigh- 
bourhood, Riversford especially, as much as was possible to 
him now that much of the management of St. Rest had passed 
under the quieter, but no less firm authority of John Walden, 
whose will was nearly always found in intellectually balanced 
opposition to his. The two seldom met. Sir Morton was 
fond of ‘ county ’ society; Walden loathed it. Moreover, Miss 
Tabitha, wearing steadily on towards fifty, had, as the saying 
is, secretly ‘ set her cap’ at the Reverend John; and the mere 
sight of the sedately-amorous spinster set his nerves on edge. 
Devoting himself strictly to his duties, to the care of the 
church, to the interests of his parishioners, young and old, to 
the cultivation of his garden, and to the careful preservation 
of all the natural beauties of the landscape around him, — 
John lived very much the life of a ‘holy man’ of mediaeval 
days; while Sir Morton built and ‘ patronised ’ a hospital at 
Riversford, gave several prizes for cabbages and shooting 
competitions, occasionally patted the heads of a few strag- 
gling school-children, fussed round among his scattered ten- 
antry, and wrote paragraphs about his own ‘ fine presence and 
open-hearted hospitality ’ for publication in the ‘ Riversford 
Gazette ’ whenever he entertained a house party at Badsworth 
Hall, which he '•ery frequently did. He kept well .in touch 
with London folk, and to London folk he was fond of speak- 
ing of St. Rest as ‘ my ’ little village. But when London folk 
came to enquire for themselves as to the nature of his posses- 
sion, they invariably discovered that it was not Sir Morton’s 
little village at all but the Reverend John’s little village. 
Hence arose certain discrepancies and cross-currents of feel- 
ing, leading to occasional mild friction and ‘local’ excite- 
ment. Up to the present time, however, Walden had on the 
whole lived a tranquil life, such as best suited his tranquil and 
philosophic temperament, and his occasional ‘brushes’ with 


God’s Good Man 


53 


Sir Morton only served to give piquancy and savour to tlie 
quiet round of his daily habits. Now, all unexpectedly, there 
was to be a break, — a new source of unavoidable annoyance in 
the intrusion of a feminine authority, — a modem Squire-ess, 
who no doubt would probably bring modern ways with her into 
the little old-world place, — who would hunt and shoot and 
smoke, — perhaps even swear at her grooms, — who could tell? 
She would not, she could not interfere with the church or its 
minister, were she ever so much Miss Vancourt of Abbot’s 
Manor, — but she could if she liked 1 muddle about 9 with many 
other matters, and there could be no doubt that as the visible 
and resident mistress of the most historic house in the neigh- 
bourhood, she would be what is called 1 a social influence.’ 

“And not for good!” mused John Walden, during a 
meditative stroll in his garden on the even of the May-day on 
which he had heard the disturbing news ; “ Certainly not for 
good!” 

He raised his eyes to the sky where the curved bow of a new 
moon hung clear and bright as a polished sickle. All was 
intensely still. The day had been a very busy one for him ; — • 
the children’s dinner and their May-games had kept his hands 
full, and not till sunset, when the chimes of the church began 
to ring for evening service, had he been able to snatch a 
moment to himself for quiet contemplation. The dewy fresh- 
ness of the garden, perfumed by the opening blossoms of the 
syringa, imparted its own sense of calm and grave repose to 
his mind, — and as he paced slowly up and down the gravel 
walk in front of his study window watching the placid beauty 
of the deepening night, a slight sigh escaped him. 

“ It cannot be for good ! ” he repeated, regretfully ; “ A 
woman trained as she must have been trained since girlhood, 
with all her finer perceptions blunted by perpetual contact 
with the assertive and ostentatious evidences of an excess of 
wealth, — probably surrounded too by the pitiful vulgarisms 
of a half-bred American society, too ignorant to admit or 
recognise its own limitations, — she must have almost forgotten 
the stately traditions of the fine old family she springs from. 
One must not expect the motto of ‘ noblesse oblige’ to weigh 
with modern young women — more’s the pity! I’m afraid the 
mistress of Abbot’s Manor will be a disturbing element in the 
village, breeding discontent and trouble where there has been 
till now comparative peace, and a fortunate simplicity of life. 
I’m sorry! This would have been a perfect First of May but 


54 God’s Good Man 

for the news of her coming. It is the one cloud in an other* 
wise clear sky ! ” 

The young moon swinging lazily downward to the west, 
looked upon him as though she smiled. A little bat scurried 
past in fear and hurled itself into the dewy masses of foliage 
bordering the edge of the lawn. And from the reeds and 
sedges fringing the river beyond, there came floating a long 
whispering murmur that swept past his ears and died softly 
into space, as of a voice that had something strange and new 
to say, which might not yet be said. 


iy 


rjvrro days later on, when Walden was at work in his own 
"^room seriously considering the points of his sermon for 
the coming Sunday, his ‘ head man about the place/ Bainton, 
made a sudden appearance on the lawn and abruptly halted 
there, looking intently up at the sky, as though taking observa- 
tions of a comet at noon. This was a customary trick of his 
resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence during" 
forbidden hours. John saw him plainly enough from where 
he sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended 
not to see. But as Bainton remained immovable and ap- 
parently rooted to the ground, and as it was likely that there 
he would remain till positively told to go, his master made a 
virtue of necessity, and throwing down his pen, went to the 
window. Bainton thereupon advanced a little, but stopped 
again as though irresolute. Walden likewise paused a 
moment, then at last driven to bay by the old gardener’s 
pertinacity, stepped out. 

“ Now what is it, Bainton ? ” he said, endeavouring to throw 
a shade of sternness into his voice; “You know very well I 
hate being disturbed while I’m writing.” 

Bainton touched his cap respectfully. 

“ Now don’t go for to say as I’m disturbing on ye, Passon,” 
he remonstrated, mildly ; “ I ain’t said a mortal wurrd ! I was 
onny jes’ keepin’ my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the 
party in the churchyard might walk through, thinkin’ it a 
right-o’-way. Them swagger folk ain’t got no sort of idee as 
to respectin’ private grounds.” 

Walden’s eyes flashed. 

“A party in the churchyard?” he repeated. “Who are 
they?” 

“ Who should they be ? ” And Bainton’s rugged features 
expressed a sedate mingling of the shrewd and the contempt- 
uous that was quite amazing. “Worn’t you expectin’ dis- 
tinguished visitors some day this week, sir ? ” 

“I know!” exclaimed Walden quickly; “Sir Morton Pip- 
(ntt and his guests have come to ‘inspect’ the church l 

55 


God’s Good Man 


56 

Ha-ha-ha-ha!” And he broke into a laugh so joyous and 
mellow that Bainton found it quite irresistible and joined in 
it with a deep “ Hor-hor-hor ! ” evoked from the hollow of his 
throat, and beginning loudly, but dying away into a hoarse 
intermittent chuckle. 

“ Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the Beverend John again, throwing 
back his head with a real enjoyment in his capability for 
laughter; “You did quite right to disturb me, Bainton, — 
quite right! Where are Sir Morton and his party? What 
are they doing ? ” 

“ They was jes’ crossin’ the churchyard when I spied ’em,” 
answered Bainton; “An’ Sir Morton was makin’ some very 
speshul observations of his own on the ‘herly Norman 
period.’ Hor-hor-hor ! An’ they’ve got ole Putty Leveeon 
with ’em ” 

“Bainton!” interrupted Walden severely; “How often 
must I tell you that you should not speak of the rector of 
Badsworth in that disrespectful manner ? ” 

“Very sorry, sir!” said Bainton complacently; “But if 
one of the names of a man ’appens to be Putwood an’ the 
man ’imself is as fat as a pig scored for roastin’ ’ole, what 
more natrul than the pet name of c Putty’ for ’im? No ’arm 
meant, I’m sure, Passon! — Putty’s as good as Pippitt any 
day!” 

Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort. He was 
very much of a boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and 
the quaint obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much 
to call for any serious remonstrance. Turning back to his 
study he took his hat and cane from their own particular cor- 
ner of the room and started for the little clap gate which 
Bainton had been, as he said, { keeping his eye on/ 

“No more work to-day,” he said, with an air of whimsical 
resignation ; “ But I may possibly get one or two hints for my 
sermon ! ” 

He strode off, and Bainton watched him go. As the clap 
gate opened and swung to again, and his straight athletic fig- 
ure disappeared, the old gardener still stood for a moment or 
two ruminating. 

“What a blessin’ he ain’t married!” he said thoughtfully; 
“.A blessin’ to the village, an’ a blessin’ to ’imself! He’d a 
bin a fine man spoilt, if a woman ’ad ever got ’old on ’im, — a 
fine man spoilt, jes’ like me ! ” 

An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the 
furrows of his face at this consideration; — then he trotted 


God’s Good Man 


57 


slowly off towards the vegetable garden where his ‘ under 
gardeners’ as he called three or four sturdy village lads em- 
ployed to dig and hoe, constantly required his supervision. 

Meanwhile Walden, leaving his own grounds, entered the 
churchyard, walking with softly reverent step among the little 
green mounds of earth, under which kind eyes were closed, 
and warm hearts lay cold, till, reaching the porched entrance 
of the church itself, he paused, brought to a halt by the sound 
of voices which were pitched rather too loud for propriety, 
considering the sacredness of the surroundings. 

“ That eastern window is crude — very crude ! ” said a growl- 
ingly robust baritone; “I suppose the reveratnd gentleman 
could not secure sufficient subscriptions to meet the expense 
of suitable stained glass ? ” 

“ Unfortunately Mr. Walden is a very self-opinionated 
man,” replied a smooth and oily tenor, whose particular tone 
of speech Walden recognised as that of the Reverend ‘ Putty’ 
Leveson, the minister of Badsworth, a small scattered village 
some five or six miles e on the wrong side of Badsworth Hall,’ 
as the locality was called, owing to its removed position from 
the county town of Riversford. “ He would not accept outside 
advice. Of course these columns and capitals are all wrong, 
— they are quite incongruous with early Norman walls, — but 
when ignorance is allowed to have its own way, the effect is 
always disastrous.” 

“ Always — always, — my dear sir — always ! ” And the voice 
or Sir Morton Pippitt, high pitched and resonant, trolled out 
on the peaceful air ; “ The fact is, the church could have been 
much better done, had I been consulted! The whole thing 
was carried out in the most brazen manner, under my very 
nose, sir, under my very nose ! — without so much as a ‘ by your 
leave’! Shocking, shocking! I complained to the Bishop, 
but it was no use, for it seems that he has a perfect infatua- 
tion for this man Walden — they were college friends or some- 
thing of that kind. As for the sarcophagus here, of course it 
ought in the merest common decency to have been transferred 
to the Cathedral of the diocese. But you see the present in- 
cumbent bought the place; — the purchase of advowsons is a 
scandal, in my opinion — however this man got it all his own 
way, more’s the pity! — he bought it through some friend or 
other — and so ” 

“ So he could do as he liked with it !” said a mild, piping 
falsetto; “And so far, he has made it beau-ti-ful! — beau-ti- 
ful!” 


God’s Good Man 


58 

There was a pause, during which Walden, baring his head 
as he passed in, entered the sacred edifice. He became aware 
of Sir Morton Pippitt standing in the attitude of a University 
Extension lecturer near the sarcophagus in the middle of the 
chancel, with the Reverend Mr. Leveson and a couple of other 
men near him, while two more strangers were studying the 
groined roof with critical curiosity. As he approached, Sir 
Morton made a rapid sign to his companions and stepped 
down from the chancel. 

“ Glad to see you, Mr. Walden,” he said in a loud whisper, 
and with an elaborate affectation of great heartiness ; “ I have 
brought His Grace the Duke of Lumpton to see the church.” 

Walden allowed his calm blue eyes to rest quietly on His 
Grace the Duke of Lumpton without much interest. His 
Grace was an undersized fat man, with a bald head and a red 
face, and on Walden’s being presented to him, merely nodded 
with a patronisingly casual air. 

“ Lord Mawdenham,” — continued Sir Morton, swelling vis- 
ibly with just pride at his own good fortune in being able 
to introduce a Lord immediately after a Duke, and offering 
Walden, as it were, with an expressive wave of his hand, “to a 
pale young gentleman, who seemed seriously troubled by an 
excess of pimples on his chin, and who plucked nervously at 
one of these undesirable facial addenda as his name was ut- 
tered. Walden acknowledged his presence with silent com- 
posure, as he did the wide smile arid familiar nod of his 
brother minister, the Reverend 1 Putty/ whose truly ele- 
phantine proportions were encased in a somewhat too closely 
fitting bicycle suit, and whose grand-pianoforte shaped legs 
and red perspiring face together, presented a most unclerical 
spectacle of the * Church at large.’ 

The two gentlemen who had been studying the groined 
roof, now brought their glances to bear on Walden, and one 
of them, a youngish man with a crop of thick red hair and a 
curiously thin, hungry face, spoke without waiting for Sir 
Morton’s cue. 

“ Mr. Walden? Ye-es! — I felt sure it must be Mr. Walden! 
Let me congratulate you, sir, on your exquisite devotional 
work here! The church is beau-ti-ful — beau-ti-ful ! A son- 
net in stone! A sculptured prayer! Ye-es! It is so! Per- 
mit me to press your hand ! ” 

John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation 
about the speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining. 

“ Mr. Julian Adderley is a poet,” said Sir Morton, whisper- 


God’s Good Man 


53 

ing this in a jocose stage aside; “Everything is ‘beautiful* 
to him ! ” 

Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of 
rather fine grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one 
who should say with Hamlet 1 These tedious old fools ! * 
Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had secured the last member 
of his party affectionately by the arm, and continuing his 
stage whisper said: 

“Permit me, Mr. Walden! This is one of our greatest 
London literary lights! He will particularly appreciate any- 
thing you may be good enough to tell him respecting your 
work of restoration here — Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile 
and Savage clubs ! ” 

Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent 
his head with an air of dignified tolerance. He was an angu- 
lar personage, with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, 
except at the sides where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed 
his sharply defined jaws. He had a long thin mouth, and 
long thin slits for his eyes to peep through, — they would have 
been eyelids with other people, but with him they were merely 
slits. He was a particularly neat man in appearance — his 
clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his iron-grey hair 
sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well satisfied 
with his own exterior personality. Walden glanced at this 
great London literary light as indifferently as he would have 
glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other 
mechanical luminary. He had not as yet spoken a word. Sir 
Morton had done all the talking; but the power of silence 
always overcomes in the end, and John’s absolute non-com- 
mittal of himself to any speech, had at last the effect he 
desired — namely that of making Sir Morton appear a mere 
garrulous old interloper, and his ‘ distinguished ’ friends 
somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion. The warm May 
sun poured through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers 
of gold and silver on the ‘ Saint at Rest ’ before the altar, and 
showering azure and rose patterns through the ancient 
stained glass which filled the side lancet windows. The still- 
ness became for the moment intense and almost oppressive, — 
Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at his high 
starched collar and became red in the face, — the Reverend 
‘ Putty ’ forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs 
and hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for 
the individual whom their host had so frequently called ‘the 
damned parson’ to speak. The tension was relieved by the 


6o 


God’s Good Man 


sudden quiet entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of 
music. Seeing the group of persons in the chancel, she 
paused in evident uncertainty. Walden glanced at her, and 
his composed face all at once lighted up with that kindly 
smile which in such moments made him more than ordinarily 
handsome. 

“ Come along, Miss Eden,” he said in a low clear xone ; 
“You are quite at liberty to practise as usual. Sir Morton 
Pippitt and his friends will not disturb you.” 

Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by 
the visitors with an easy demeanour and assured step, and 
made her way to where the organ, small, but sweet and pow- 
erful, occupied a corner near the chancel. While she busied 
herself in opening the instrument and arranging her music, 
Walden took advantage of the diversion created by her en- 
trance to address himself to the knight Pippitt. 

“If I can be of service to your friends in explaining any- 
thing about the church they may wish to know, pray command 
me. Sir Morton,” he said. “ But I presume that you and Mr. 
Leveson ” — here he glanced at the portly ‘ Putty 9 with a slight 
smile — “ have pointed out all that is necessary.” 

“ On the contrary ! ” said Mr. Marius Longford ‘ of the 
Savile and Savage/ with a smoothly tolerant air; “We are 
really quite in the dark! Do we understand, for example, 
that the restoration of this church is entirely due to your gen- 
erosity, or to assistance from public funds and subscriptions ? ” 

“ The restoration is due, not to my ‘ generosity/ ” replied 
Walden, “but merely to my sense of what is fitting for Divine 
service. I have had no assistance from any fund or from any 
individual, because I have not sought it.” 

There was a pause, during which Mr. Longford fixed a pair 
of gold-rimmed glasses on his nose and gazed quizzically 
through them at Sir Morton Pippitt, whose countenance had 
grown uncomfortably purple in hue either with exterior heat 
or inward vexation. 

“I thought, Sir Morton,” he began slowly, when Mr. Lev- 
eson adroitly interrupted him by the query : 

“Now what period would you fix, Mr. Longford, for this 
sarcophagus? I am myself inclined to think it of the four- 
teenth century.” 

A soft low strain of music here crept through the church, — 
the village schoolmistress was beginning her practice. She 
had a delicate touch, and the sounds her fingers pressed from 
the organ-keys were full, and solemn and sweet. His Grace 


God’s Good Man 61 

the Duke of Lumpton coughed loudly; he hated music, and 
always made some animal noise of his own to drown it. 

“What matters the period!” murmured Julian Adderley, 
running his thin hand through his thick hair. “Is it not 
sufficient to see it here among us, with us, of us ? ” 

“ God bless my soul ! I hope it is not of us ! ” spluttered 
Sir Morton with a kind of fat chuckle which seemed to ema- 
nate from his stiff collar rather than from his throat ; “ ‘ Ashes 
to ashes ’ of course; we are all aware of that — but not just yet ! 
— not just yet ! ” 

“I am unable to fix the period satisfactorily to my own 
mind,” said Walden, quietly ignoring both Sir Morton and 
his observations on the Beyond ; “ though I have gone through 
considerable research with respect to the matter. So I do 
not volunteer any opinion. There is, however, no doubt that 
at one time the body contained in that coffer must have been 
of the nature termed by the old Church ‘miraculous.’ That 
is to say, it must have been supposed to be efficacious in 
times of plague or famine, for there are several portions of 
the alabaster which have evidently been worn away by the 
frequent pressure or touch of hands on the surface. Probably 
in days when this neighbourhood was visited by infection, 
drought, floods or other troubles, the priests raised the coffin 
by the system of leverage which we discovered when 
excavating (and which is still in working order) and allowed 
the people to pass by and lay their hands upon it with a 
special prayer to be relieved of their immediate sickness or 
sorrow. There were many such ‘miraculous’ shrines in the 
early part of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.” 

“Exactly,” said Mr. Longford; “I imagine you may be 
right, Mr. Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest 
phases of the Christian myth.” 

As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. 
A fine smile hovered on his lips. 

“It is as you say,” he rejoined calmly — “It is a visible 
token of the time when men believed in an Unseen Force 
more potent than themselves.” 

The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend. 
Lord Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the 
time in staring vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his 
pimpies, said hurriedly : 

“ Oh, look here. Sir Morton — er — I say, — er — hadn’t we 
better be going? There’s Lady Elizabeth Messing coming 
to lunch and you know she can’t bear to be kept waiting— 


62 


God’s Good Man 


never do, you know, not to be there to see her when she 
arrives — he-be-he! We should never get over it in London 
or out of London — ’pon my life ! — I do assure you ! ” 

Sir Morton’s chest swelled; — his starched collar crackled 
round his expanding throat, and his voice became richly 
resonant as under the influential suggestion of another 1 titled 9 
personage, he replied : 

“Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To 
keep Lady Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence 
against all the proprieties! Hum — ha — er — yes! — against all 
the proprieties! Mr. Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth 
Messing is coming to lunch with us at Badsworth. You have 
no doubt heard of her — eldest daughter of the. Earl of 
Charrington! — yes, we must really be going! I think I may 
say, may I not, your Grace % ” — here he bent towards the 
ducal Lumpton — “ that we are all highly pleased with the way 
in which Mr. Waldon has effected the restoration of the 
church ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know anything at all about it ! ” replied His 
Grace, with the air of a sporting groom ; “ I’ve no taste at all 
in churches, and I’m not taking any on old coffins! It’s a 
nice little chapel — just enough for a small village I should say. 
After all, don’t-cher-know, you only want very little accommo- 
dation for a couple of hundred yokels; and whether it’s old or 
new architecture doesn’t matter to ’em a brass farthing ! ” 

These observations were made with a rambling air of vague 
self-assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would 
pass for wit and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow 
was placid, and his countenance altogether peaceful. He was 
listening to the solemnly sweet flow of a Bach prelude which 
Miss Eden was skilfully unravelling on the organ, the notes 
rising and falling, and anon soaring up again like prayerful 
words striving to carry themselves to heaven. 

“ I think,” said Mr. Marius Longford weightily, “ that what- 
ever fault the building may have from a strictly accurate point 
of view, — which is a matter I am not prepared to go into 
without considerable time given for due study and considera- 
tion, — it is certainly the most attractive edifice of its kind that 
I have seen for some time. It reflects great credit on you, 
Mr. Walden; — no doubt the work gave you much personal 
pleasure ? ” 

“ It certainly did so,” replied John, — “ and I’m afraid I 
am arrogant enough to be satisfied with the general result so 


God’s Good Man 63 

far as it goes, — with, the exception of the eastern window, o£ 
course ! 99 

“ Ah, that eastern window ! ” sighed the Reverend * Putty 9 
with an air of aesthetic languor which was in comical contrast 
with his coarse and commonplace appearance ; “ That is a sad, 
sad flaw ! A terrible incongruity ! 99 

“ I made up my mind from the first,” pursued Walden, his 
equable voice seeming to float pleasantly on the tide of music 
with, which the little sanctuary was just then filled ; “ that 
nothing but the most genuine and authentic old stained glass 
6hould fill that fine circular rose carving, and those lance 
apertures; so I am collecting it slowly, bit by bit, for this 
purpose. It will take time and patience, no doubt, — but I 
think and hope that success will be the end of the task I have 
set myself. In the meantime, of course, the effect of plain 
glass where there should be only the richest colouring is 
decidedly * crude 9 ! 99 

He smiled slightly, and there was an uncomfortable pause. 
Sir Morton Pippitt took out a voluminous red handkerchief 
covered with yellow spots and blew his nose violently therein 
while the Reverend Mr. Leveson nodded his large head blandly, 
as one who receives doubtful information with kindly tolerance. 
Mr. Marius Longford looked faintly amused. 

“ I understand ! ” said the light of the ( Savile and Savage/ 
slowly ; “ You seek perfection ! 99 

He smiled a pallid smile ; but on the whole surveyed 
Walden with more interest than he had hitherto done. Julian 
Adderley, who had during the last couple of minutes stepped 
up to the chancel, now stood gazing at the sarcophagus of the 
supposed Saint with a kind of melancholy interest. Reading 
the only legible words of the inscription in sotto voce, he sighed 
drearily. 

“ i In — Resurrectione — Sanctorum — Resurget ! 9 How 
simple! — how new! — how fresh! To think that anyone ever 
held such a child’s faith ! 99 

“ The Church is still supposed to hold it,” said Walden 
steadily, “ And her ministers also. Otherwise, religion is a 
farce, and its professors much less honest than the trusted 
servant who steals his master’s money ! ” 

Marius Longford smiled, and stroked one feline whisker 
thoughtfully. 

“So you actually believe what you preach ! ” he murmured — 
“ Strange! You are more of an antiquity than the consecrated 
dust enclosed in that alabaster ! Believe me ! ” 


64 


God’s Good Man 


“ Much more, — much more ! ” exclaimed the fantastic 
Adderley ; “ To believe in anything at all is so remote ! — so 
very remote ! — and yet so new — so fresh ! ” 

Walden made no reply. He never argued on religious 
matters; moreover, with persons minded in the manner of 
those before him, it seemed useless to even offer an opinion. 
They exchanged meaning glances with each other, and followed 
Sir Morton, who was now moving down the central aisle of 
the church towards the door of exit, holding the Duke of 
Lumpton familiarly by the arm, and accompanied by Lord 
Mawdenham. Walden walked silently with them, till, passing 
out of the church, they all stood in a group on the broad 
gravelled pathway which led to the open road, where the 
Pippitt equipage, a large waggonette and pair, stood waiting, 
together with a bicycle, the property of the Reverend Mr. 
Leveson. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Walden ! ” then said Sir Morton Pippitt 
with a grandiose air, as of one who graciously confers a benefit 
on the silence by breaking it ; “ Thank you for — er — for — er 
— the pleasure of your company this — er — this morning! My 
friend, the Duke, — and Lord Mawdenham — and — er — our 
rising poet, Mr. Adderley — and — er — Mr. Longford, have been 
delighted. Yes — er — delighted ! Of course you know my 
opinion! Ha-ha-ha! You know my opinion! It is the 
same as it ever was — I never change! When 1 have once 
made up my mind, it is a fixture! I have said already and I 
say it again, that the church was quite good enough for such 
people as live here, in its original condition, and that you have 
really spent a great deal of cash on a very needless work! I 
mustn’t be rude, no, no, no! — but you know the old adage: 
‘ Fools and their money ! 9 Ha-ha-ha! But we shan’t quarrel. 
Oh, dear no! It has cost me nothing, I am glad to say! 
Ha-ha! Nor anybody else! Now, if Miss Vancourt of 
Abbot’s Manor had been here when you began this restora- 
tion business of yours, she might have had something to say — 
ha-ha-ha ! She always has something to say ! ” 

“You think she would have objected?” queried Walden, 
coldly. 

“ Oh, I won’t go so far as that no ! — eh, your Grace ? — - 

we won’t go so far as that ! ” 

The Duke of Lumpton, thus suddenly adjured, looked 
round, and smiled vacantly. 

“ Won’t go so far as what? ” he asked; “ Didn’t catch it! ” 

“I was talking of Maryllia Vancourt,” said Sir Morton with 


God’s Good Man 


65 

a kind of fatuous leer ; “You know her, of course ! — everyone 
knows her more or less. Charming girl! — charming! 
Maryllia Van ! — ha-ha I ” 

And Sir Morton laughed and leered again till certain veins, 
moved by cerebral emotion, protruded largely on his forehead. 
His Grace laughed also, but shortly and indifferently. 

“ Oh, ya-as — ya-as ! She’s the one who’s just had a rumpus 
with her rich American aunt. I believe they don’t speak*. 
After years of devotion, eh ? So like women, ain’t it ! ” 

The Reverend ( Putty’ Leveson, who had been stooping 1 
over his bicycle to set something right that was invariably 
going wrong with that particular machine, and who was redder 
than ever in the face with his efforts, now looked up. 

“ Miss Vancourt is coming back to the Manor to reside 
there, so I hear,” he said. “ Very dull for a woman accustomed 
to London and Paris. I expect she’ll stay about ten days.” 

“One never knows — one cannot tell!” sighed Julian 
Adderley. “ Sometimes to the satiated female mind, over- 
wrought with social dissipation, there comes a strange longing 
for peace! — for the scent of roses! — for the yellow shine of 
cowslips! — for the song of the mating birds! — for the breath 
of cows ! ” 

Mr. Marius Longford smiled, and picked a tall buttercup 
nodding in the grass at his feet. 

“ Such aspirations in the fair sex are absolutely harmless,” 
he said; “Let us hope the lady’s wishes may find their limit 
in a soothing pastoral ! ” 

“ Ha-ha-ha ! ” laughed Sir Morton. “ You are deep, my 
dear sir, you are very deep! God bless my soul! Deep as a 
well! No wonder people are afraid of you! Clever, clever! 
I’m afraid of you myself! Come along, come along! Can I 
assist your Grace ? ” Here he pushed aside with a smothered 
‘ Damn ! ’ the footman, who stood holding open the door of 
the waggonette, and officiously gave the Duke of Lumpton a 
hand to help him into the carriage. “ Now, Lord Mawdenham, 
please ! You next, Mr. Longford ! Come, come, Mr. Ad- 
derley! Think of Lady Elizabeth! She will be arriving at 
the Hall before we are there to receive her ! Terrible, terrible l 
Come along! We’re all ready! ” 

Julian Adderley had turned to Walden. 

“ Permit me to call and see you alone ! ” he said. “ I cannot 
just now appreciate the poetry of your work in the church as 
I should do — as I ought to do — as I must do! The present 
company is discordant! — one requires the music of Nature,—- 


66 


God’s Good Man 


the thoughts, — the dreams! But no more at present! I 
should like to talk with you on many matters some wild sweet 
morning, — if you have no objection ? ” 

Walden was amused. At the same time he was not very 
eager to respond to this overture of closer acquaintanceship 
with one who, by his dress, manner and method of speech, 
proclaimed himself a ‘ decadent ’ of the modern school of 
ethics; but he was nothing if not courteous. So he replied 
briefly : 

“ I shall be pleased to see you, of course, Mr. Adderley, but 
I must warn you that I am a very busy man — I should not be 
able to give you much time ” 

“ No explanations — I understand ! ” And Adderley pressed 
his hand with enthusiasm. “ The very fact that you are busy 
in a village like this adds to the peculiar charm of your per- 
sonality ! It is so strange ! — so new — so fresh ! ” 

He smiled, and again pressed hands. 

“ Good-bye ! The mood will send me to you at the fitting 
moment ! ” 

He clapped his hat more firmly on his redundant red 
locks and clambered into the waiting waggonette. Sir 
Morton followed him, and the footman shut to the door of the 
vehicle with a bang as unnecessary as his master’s previous 
* Damn ! ’ 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Walden! ” then shouted the knight of 
bone-melting prowess ; “ Much obliged to you, I’m sure ! ” 

Walden raised his hat with brief ceremoniousness, and then 
as the carriage rolled away addressed the Reverend Mr. 
Leveson, who was throwing himself with hippopotamus-like 
agility across his bicycle. 

“You follow, I suppose?” 

“ Yes. I’m lunching at Badsworth Hall. The Duke wants 
to consult me about his family records. You know I’m a bit 
of an authority on such points ! ” 

Walden smiled. 

“I believe you are! But mind you calendar the ducal 
deeds carefully,” he said. “ A slip in the lineal descent of 
the Lumptons might affect the whole prestige of the British 
Empire ! ” 

A light shone in his clear blue eyes, — a flashing spark of 
battle. Leveson stayed his bicycle a moment, wobbling on it 
uneasily. 

“Lumpton goes back a good way,” he said airily; “I shall 
take him up when I have gone through the history of tha 


God’s Good Man 


67 

Vancourts. I’m on that scent now. I shall make a good bit 
of business directly Miss Yancourt returns; she’ll pay for 
anything that will help her to stiffen her back and put more 
side on.” 

“Really!” ejaculated Walden, coldly. “I should have 
thought her forebears would have saved her from snobbery.” 

“Not a bit of it ! ” declared Leveson, beginning to start the 
muscles of his grand-pianoforte legs with energy ; “ Rapid as a 
firework, and vain as a peacock ! Ta ! ” 

And fixing a small cap firmly on the back of his very large 
head, he worked his wheel with treadmill regularity and was 
soon out of sight. 

Walden stood alone in the churchyard, lost for a brief space 
in meditation. The solemn strains of the organ which the 
schoolmistress was still playing, floated softly out from the 
church to the perfumed air, and the grave melodious murmur 
made an undercurrent of harmony to the clear bright warbling 
of a skylark, which, beating its wings against the sunbeams, 
rose ever higher and higher above him. 

“ What petty souls we are ! ” he murmured ; “ Here am I 
feeling actually indignant because this fellow Leveson, who has 
less education and knowledge than my dog Nebbie, assumes 
to have some acquaintance with Miss Yancourt! What does 
it matter? What business is it of mine? If she cares to 
accept information from an ignoramus, what is it to do with 
me? Nothing! Yet, — what a blatant ass the fellow is! 
Upon my word, it does me good to say it — a blatant ass! 
And Sir Morton Pippitt is another ! ” 

He laughed, and lifting his hat from his forehead, let the 
soft wind breathe refreshing coolness on his uncovered hair. 

“ There are decided limits to Christian love ! ” he said, the 
laughter still dancing in his eyes. “ I defy — I positively defy 
anyone to love Leveson ! ‘ The columns and capitals are all 

wrong ’ are they ? ” And he gave a glance back at the 
beautiful little church in its exquisite design and completed 
perfection. c Out of keeping with early Norman walls!’ 
Wise Leveson ! He ignores all periods of transition as if they 
had never existed — as if they had no meaning for the thinker 
as well as the architect — as if the movement upward from the 
Norman to the Early Pointed style showed no indication of 
progress ! And whereas a church should always be a veritable 
* sermon in stone ’ expressive of the various generations that 
have wrought their best on it, he limits himself to the begin* 


68 


God’s Good Man 


ning of things ! I wonder what Leveson was in the beginning 
of things ? Possibly an embryo Megatherium ! ” 

Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with 
his own garden, opened it, and passed through. Nebbie was 
waiting for him on the lawn, and greeted him with the usual 
effusiveness. He returned to his desk, and to the composition 
of his sermon, but his thoughts were inclined to wander. Sir 
Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham 
hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; 
and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford 
in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in 
order to if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really 
done anything in the world to merit his position as a shining 
luminary of the ‘ Savage and Savile.’ Accustomed as he was 
to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not 
yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, 
among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide. And ever 
and again Sir Morton Pippitt’s coarse chuckle, combined with 
the covert smiles of Sir Morton’s 4 distinguished ’ friends, 
echoed through his mind in connection with the approaching 
dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy quietude 
of the village of St. Best, till he experienced a sense of pain 
and aversion almost amounting to anger. Why, he asked 
himself, seeing she had stayed so long away from her child- 
hood’s home, could she not have stayed away altogether? 
The swift and brilliant life of London was surely far more 
suited to one who, according to 4 Putty’ Leveson, was 4 rapid 
as a firework, and vain as a peacock.’ But was 4 Putty’ 
Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements? 

No ! Certainly not — yet ” 

Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, 
for he erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and 
altered his text, which had been : “ Glory, honour and peace 
to every man that worketh good.” And in its place he chose, 
as a more enticing subject of discourse: 

# “ The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the 
sight of God, of great price.” 


V 


rpHE warm bright weather continued. Morning after 
morning dawned in unclouded sunshine, and when 
Saturday concluded the first five days of the ( May-moneth,’ 
the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to concede that it 
was just possible they might have what they called ‘ a spell of 
fair weather.’ Saturday was the general < cleaning-up day ’ in 
the village — the day when pails of water were set out in un- 
expected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old 
flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of 
too-hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently 
squirted at with the aid of garden-syringes and hose, — and 
when Adam Frost, the sexton, was always to be found meditat- 
ing, and even surreptitiously drinking beer, in a quiet corner 
of the churchyard, because he was afraid to go home, owing 
to the persistent housewifely energy of his better half, who 
4 washed down 9 everything, ‘ cleaned out ’ everything, and had, 
as she forcibly expressed it, 4 the Sunday meals on her mind.’ 
It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening 
duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by him- 
self, aware that his ‘ Missis 9 was scrubbing the kitchen, and 
‘ wouldn’t have him muckin’ about,’ — and when John Walden, 
having finished his notes for the Sunday’s sermon, felt a sense 
of ease and relief, and considered himself at liberty to study 
purely Pagan literature, such as The Cratylus of Plato. 
But on this special Saturday he was not destined to enjoy 
complete relaxation. Mrs. Spruce had sent an urgent appeal 
to him to ‘ kindly step up to the Manor in the afternoon.’ 
And Mrs. Spruce’s husband, a large, lumbering, simple-faced 
old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come 
with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Walden’s 
threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply. John surveyed his 
awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness, — 
excuses and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an 
almost deaf man. Submitting to fate, he nodded his head 
vigorously, and spoke as loudly as he judged needful. 

“ All right, Spruce 1 Say I’ll come ! ” 

69 


To 


God’s Good Man 


" Jes’ what I told her, sir,” answered Spruce, in a remarkably 
gentle tone ; “ It’s a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no 
? arm can ’appen, no matter if it’s all the riches of the yearth.” 

John felt more helpless than ever. What was the man 
talking about? He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic 
key. 

“ Look here. Spruce ! Tell your wife I’ll come after 
luncheon. Do you hear ? Af — ter lun — cheon ! ” 

Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly. 

“ Ezackly, sir ! I quite agrees with ye ; but women are 
alius a bit worrity-like, and of course there’s a deal to do, and 
she got frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine 
clothes, and what not, — so I drawed her a glass of cherry- 
cordial, an’ sez I, ‘Now, old ’ooman,’ sez I, ‘don’t skeer yer- 
self into fits. I’ll fetch the passon to ye.’ And with that, she 
seemed easier in her mind. Lord love ye! — it’s a great thing 
to fetch the passon at once when there’s anything a bit wrong. 
So, if you’d step up, sir ? ” 

Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the 
old man’s obstinate ear. 

“ Yes,” he bellowed — “ af — ter lun — cheon ! Yes ! Ye — es ! ” 

His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of 
Spruce’s brain. 

“ Thank you, kindly, sir, I’m sure,” he said, still in the same 
meek and quiet tone. “ And if 1 might make so bold, sir, 
seein’ there’s likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should 
be needful to speak for me and my old ’ooman, p’raps you’d 
be so good, sir? We wouldn’t like to leave the old place now, 
sir ” 

His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed 
bis hand across his poor dim eyes. The pathos of this hint 
was not lost on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary 
irritation, rose manfully to the occasion and roared down the 
old man’s ears like one of the far-famed ‘ Bulls of Bashan.’ 

* Don’t worry ! ” he yelled, his face becoming rapidly crimson 
with his efforts ; “ I’ll see you all right ! You sha’n’t leave the 
Manor if I can prevent it! I’ll speak for you! Cheer up! 
Do you hear ! Che — er up ! ” 

Spruce heard very clearly this time, and smiled. 

“ Thank you, Passon! God bless you! I’m sure you’ll help 
us, if so be the lady is a hard one ” 

He trusted himself to say no more, but with a brief respect- 
ful salutation, put on his cap and turned away. 

Left alone, Walden drew a long breath, and wiped his brow* 


God’s Good Man 


7i 


To make poor old Spruce hear was a powerful muscular 
exertion. Nebbie had been so much astonished at the loud 
pitch of his master’s voice, that he had retired under a sofa 
in alarm, and only crawled out now as Spruce departed, with 
small anxious waggings of his tail. Walden patted the ani- 
mal’s head and laughed. 

“ Mind you don’t get deaf in your old age, Nebbie ! ” he 
said. “ Phew ! A little more shouting like that and I should 
be unable to preach to-morrow ! ” 

Still patting the dog’s head, his eyes gradually darkened and 
his brow became clouded. 

“ Poor Spruce ! ” he murmured. “ 4 Help him, if so be the 
lady is a hard one ! ’ Already in fear of her ! I expect they 
have heard something — some ill-report — probably only too 
correctly founded. Yet, how it goes against the grain of man- 
hood to realise that any 4 lady ’ may be 4 a hard one ! ’ But, 
alas! — what a multitude of 4 hard ones’ there are! Harder 
than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known ! ” 

And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in 
him to that dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress 
of Abbot’s Manor. He experienced an instinctive dislike of 
her, and was positively certain that the vague repugnance 
would deepen into actual antipathy. 

44 One cannot possibly like everybody,” he argued within 
himself, in extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable 
mental attitude; “'And modern fashionable women are 
among the most unlikeable of all human creatures. Any one 
of them in such a village as this would be absurdly out of 
place.” 

Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of 
pity and resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he 
walked that afternoon up the winding road which led to the 
Manor, and avoiding the lodge gates, passed through a rustic 
turnstile he knew well and so along a path across meadows 
and through shrubberies to the house. The path was guarded 
by a sentinel board marked 4 Private. Trespassers will be 
prosecuted.’ But in all the years he had lived at St. Best, he 
cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he had his 
little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air of a 
dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on 
either side was springing up long and green, — delicate little 
field flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every 
now and then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense 
of the young wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk 


72 


God’s Good Man 


was known as a c short cut ’ to Abbot’s Manor, and ten min- 
utes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of 
a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, 
the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came 
into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat 
regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the 
bright sun, — a picture which through long habitude of observa- 
tion had grown very sweet to him. It was not every day that 
such a house as Abbot’s Manor came within reach of the 
archaeologist and antiquarian. The beautiful tiled-roof — the 
picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural 
lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, 
angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these 
degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon, — a 
wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round 
the quaint old chimneys; — some white doves clustered in a 
group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading 
their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domes- 
tic concerns in melodious cooings ; — the latticed windows, some 
of which in their unspoilt antiquity of ‘ horn ’ panes were a 
particular feature of the house, were all thrown open, — but to 
Walden’s sensitive observation there seemed a different atmos- 
phere about the place, — a suggestion of change and occupation 
which was almost startling. 

He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which 
led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common 
to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal 
beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The 
gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for 
a moment at the grey weather-beaten sun-dial in the middle 
of the court which told him it was three-o’clock. For four 
centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour 
in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness 
of human existence, as compared with its own strange non- 
sentient. lastingness. The sound of Walden’s footsteps on the 
old . paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a 
robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked 
up to the great oaken porch of entrance, — a porch heavily 
carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as 
deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd sense 
came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor 
to a beautiful 1 show house,’ so much as a kind of trespasser 
on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded doors, clamped 
’with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on 


God’s Good Man 


73 

the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, 
uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go 
away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy 
corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with 
an exclamation of evident relief. 

“ Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here 
you are at last! Pd made up my mind the silly fool of a 
Spruce had brought me the wrong message; — a good meanin’ 
man, but weak in the upper storey, ‘cept where trees is com 
cerned and clearing away brushwood, when I’d be bold to say 
he’s as handy as they make ’em — but do, for mercy’s sake, 
Passon, step inside and see how we’ve got on, for it’s not so 
bad as it might have been, an’ I’ve seen worse done at a few 
days’ notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint 
could ever do. Step in, sir, step in! — we’re leavin’ the door 
open to let the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained 
glass do but filter it through at its best ; not but that we ain’t 
had a fire in it night and mornin’ ever since we had Miss 
Vancourt’s letter.” 

Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy 
woman’s discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be 
an impossible task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and 
looked round the grand old hall, decorated with ancient 
armour, frayed banners and worn scutcheons, feeling regret- 
fully that perhaps he was looking at it so for the last time. 
No one more than he had appreciated the simple dignity of 
its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the price- 
less value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls. 
He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the 
very bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved 
benches on each side, and its massive armorial emblems 
wrought in black oak, picked out with tarnished gold, crimson 
and azure, — he appreciated every small gleam and narrow 
shaft of colour reflected by the strong sun through the deeply- 
tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the lofty oriel windows 
on either side; — and the stuffed knight-in-armour, a model 
figure ‘clad in complete steel,’ of the fourteenth century, 
which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near the 
doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost 
a personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the 
deepening melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, 
led the way through the hall, still garrulously chirping.. 

“ We’ve cleaned up wonderfully, considerin’ — and it was 
just the Lord’s providence that at Riversford I found a decent 


74 


God’s Good Man 


butler and footman what had jes’ got the sack from Sir Morton 
Pippitt’s and were lookin’ for a place temp’ry, preferring Lon- 
don later, so I persuaded both of ’em to come and try service 
with a lady for once, instead of with a fussy old ancient, who 
turns red and blue in the face if he’s kept waitin’ ’arf a sec- 
ond — and I picked up with a gel what the footman was engaged 
to, and that’ll keep him a fixture, — and I found the butler had 
a hi on a young woman at the public-house ’ere, — so that’s what 
you may call an 1 hattraction,’ and then I got two more ’andy 
gels which was jes’ goin’ off to see about Mrs. Leveson’s place, 
and when I told ’em that there the sugar was weighed out, and 
the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was chemicals, and that 
please the Lord and anybody else that likes, they’d have bet- 
ter feedin’ if they came along with me, they struck a bar- 
gain there and then. And then as if there was a special power- 
ful blessin’ on it all, who should come down Riversford 
High Street but one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a 
Scotch body worth her weight in gold, and she’d be a pretty 
big parcel to weigh, too, but she can send up a dinner for one 
as easy as for thirty, which is as good a test as boilin’ a tater 
- — and ’as got all her wits about her. She was just goin’ to 
advertise for a house party or shootin’ job, so we went into the 
Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and settled it. 
And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry as 
larks; — so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you, 
’specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself 
and lonesome like for many years. I’ve made Kitty useful, 
too, dustin’ and polishin’ — gels can’t begin their trainin’ too 
early, and all has been going on fine; — not but what there’s a 
mighty sight of eatin’ and drinkin’ now, but it’s the Lord’s will 
that human bein’s should feed even as the pigs do, ’specially 
domestic servants, and there’s no helpin’ of it nor hinderin’ — 
but this mornin’s business did put me out a bit, and I do assure 
you I haven’t got over it yet, but howsomever, Spruce says ‘ Do 
yer dooty!.’ — and I’m a-doin’ it to the best of my belief and 

’ope — still it do make my mind a bit ricketty ” 

_ Silently Walden followed her through the rooms, saying 
little in response to her remarks, ‘ ricketty ’ or otherwise, and 
noting all the various changes as he went. 

In the dining-room there was a great transformation. The 
fine old Cordova leather chairs were all released from their 
brown holland coverings, — the long-concealed Flemish tapes- 
tries were again unrolled and disclosed to the light of day — 
valuable canvases that had been turned to the wall to save 


/ 


God’s Good Man 


75 


their colour from the too absorbing sunshine, were now re- 
stored to their proper positions, and portraits by Vandyke, and 
landscapes by Corot gave quite a stately air of occupation to 
a room, which being large and lofty, had always seemed to 
Walden the loneliest in the house for lack of a living presence. 
He trod in the restless wake of Mrs. Spruce, however, without 
comment other than a word of praise such as she expected, 
for the general result of her labours in getting the long-dis- 
used residence into habitable condition, and was only moved 
to something like enthusiasm when he reached what was called 
i the morning room/ an apartment originally intended to serve 
as a boudoir for that beautiful Mrs. Vancourt, the bride who 
never came home. Here all the furniture was of the daintiest 
design, — here rich cushions of silk and satin were lavishly piled 
on the luxurious sofas and in the deep easy-chairs, — curtains 
of cream brocade embroidered by hand with garlands of roses, 
draped the sides of the deep embrasured window-nook whence 
two wide latticed doors opened outwards to a smooth terrace 
bordered with flowers, where two gardeners were busy rolling 
the rich velvety turf, — and beyond it stretched a great lawn 
shaded with ancient oaks and elms that must have seen the 
days of Henry vii. The prospect was fair and soothing to the 
eyes, and Walden gazing at it, gave a little involuntary sigh 
of pleasure. 

“ This is beautiful ! ” he said, speaking more to himself than 
to anyone — “ Perfectly beautiful ! ” 

“It is so, sir,” agreed Mrs. Spruce, with an air of comfort- 
ably placid conviction ; “ There’s no doubt about it — it’s as 
beautiful a room as could be made for a queen, though I say 
it — but whether our new lady will like it, is quite another 
question. You see, sir, this room was always kept locked in 
the Squire’s time, and so was all the other rooms as was got 
ready for the wife as never lived to use them. The Squire 
wouldn’t let a soul inside the doors, not even his daughter. 
And now, sir, will you please read the letter I got this morning, 
which as you will notice, is quite nice-like and kindly, more 
than the other — onny when the boxes came I was a bit upset. 
You see the letter was registered and had the keys inside it 
all right.” 

Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same 
thick notepaper, odorous with crushed violets — the same bold, 
dashing handwriting he had seen before, but the matter ex- 
pressed in it was worded somehow in a totally different tone to 
that of the previous letter from the same hand. 


76 


God’s Good Man 


“Dear Mrs. Spruce/’ it ran: “I enclose the keys of my 
boxes which I am sending in advance, as I never travel with 
luggage. Kindly unpack all the contents and arrange them 
in the wardrobes and presses of my mother’s rooms. If I re- 
member rightly, these rooms have never been used, but I 
intend to take them for myself now, so please have everything 
prepared. I have received your letter in which you say there 
is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a notice. 
I quite understand this, and am sure you will arrange for the 
best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can 
make alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in 
time for afternoon tea. Maryllia Vancourt.” 

Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner. 

“ Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. 
-Spruce,” he said, with a little smile ; “ The lady is evidently 
prepared to excuse any deficiencies arising from the hurry of 
your preparations.” 

“ Yes, sir, that may be,” answered Mrs. Spruce ; “ but if so be 
you saw what I’ve seen you mightn’t take it so easily. Now, 
sir, if you’ll follow me, you’ll be able to judge of the quandary 
we was in till we got our senses back.” 

Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate 
as to the ‘ quandary ’ which according to the good woman had 
resulted in a species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, 
and slowly ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest 
specimens of Tudor work in all England, with its richly turned 
balustrades and grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he 
reached the upper landing, he halted abruptly, seeing through 
an open door mysterious glimmerings of satins and laces, to 
which he was entirely unaccustomed. 

“ What room is that ? ” he enquired. 

“ That’s what we used to call ‘ the bride’s room/ sir,” replied 
Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of 
fussy importance, and heaving a sigh ; “ Miss Maryllia’s mother 
was to have had it. Don’t be afraid to step inside, Passon ; 
everythink’s been turned out and aired, and there’s not a 
speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you’ll see for your- 
self what a time we’re ’avin’ though we’re gettin’ jes’ a bit 
straight now, and I’ve ’ad Nancy Pyrle as is ’andy with her 
pencil to mark things down as they come to ’and. Step inside, 
Passon Walden, — do step inside! ” 

But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, 
declined to move further than the threshold of this hitherto 


God’s Good Man 


77 


closed and sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the 
doorway he looked in wonderingly, with a vague feeling of 
bewilderment, while Mrs. Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave 
instructions to a fresh-faced country lass, who, breathing very 
hard, as though she were running, was carefully shaking out 
what seemed to be a fairy’s robe of filmy white lace, glistening 
with pearls. 

“ Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble’s about; ” — she 
said — “ Fancy ’avin’ to unpack all these grand clothes, and 
sort ’em as they comes, not knowin’ whether they mayn’t fall 
to bits in our ’ands, some of ’em bein’ fine as cobwebs, an’ such 
body linen as was never made for any mortal woman in St. 
Rest, all lace an’ silk an’ little ribbins! When the trunks 
arrived an’ we got ’em into the ’all, I felt that faint, I do 
assure ye! For me to ’ave to unpack an’ open ’em, and take 
out all the things inside, — ah, Passon, it’s an orful ’sponsibility, 
seein’ there’s jewels packed among the dresses quite reckless- 
like, rubies an’ sapphires an’ diamants, somethin’ amazin’, and 
we’ve taken a reg’lar invent’ry of them all lest somethin’ might 
be missin’, for the Lord He only knows whether there might 
not be fifty thousand pounds of proputty in one of them little 
kicketty boxes, all velvet and satin, made just as if they was 
sweetmeats, only when ye looks inside ye sees a sparklin’ stone 
glisterin’ at ye, and ye know it’s wuth a fortune ! I do assure 
ye, Passon, I’ve never seen such things in all my life! Miss 
Maryllia must be mortal extravagant, for there’s enough in one 
o’ them boxes to feed the whole village of St. Rest for several 
years. Ah! Passon, I do assure ye, I’ve thought of Scriptej* 
many a time this mornin’ ; ( Whose adornin’ let it be the 
adornin’ of a meek and quiet spirit,’ which is a hornament and 
no mistake ! ” 

Walden made no remark. It never even occurred to him 
just then that Mrs. Spruce was unconsciously rendering in her 
own particular fashion the text he had chosen for the next 
day’s sermon. Never in all his life before had he experienced 
such strongly mingled sensations of repulsion and interest as at 
that moment. With a kind of inward indignation, he asked 
himself what business he had to be there looking curiously into 
a woman’s room, littered with all the fripperies and expensive 
absurdities of a woman’s apparel? Above all, why should he 
be so utterly ridiculous and inconsequential in his own mind 
as to find himself deeply fascinated by such a spectacle? In 
all the years he had passed with his sister, so long as she had 
lived, he had never seen such a bewildering disorder of femi- 


God’s Good Man 


78 

nine clothes. He had never had the opportunity of noting the 
pathetic difference existing between the toilette surroundings 
of a woman who is strong and well, and of one who is deprived 
of all natural coquetry by the cruel ravages of long sickness 
and disease. His sister, beautiful even in her incurable 
physical affliction, had always borne that affliction more or less 
in mind, and had attired herself with a severely simple taste, 

- — her bedroom, where she had had to pass so many weary 
hours of suffering, had been a model of almost Spartan-like 
simplicity, and her dressing-table was wont to be far more 
conspicuous for melancholy little medicine-phials than for 
flashing, silver-stoppered cut-glass bottles, exhaling the rarest 
perfumes. Then, since her death, Walden had lived so en- 
tirely alone, that the pretty vanities of bright and healthy 
women were quite unfamiliar to him. 

The present glittering display of openly expressed frivolity 
seemed curiously new, and vaguely alarming. He was angry 
with it, yet in a manner attracted. He found himself consider- 
ing, with a curious uneasiness, two small nondescript pink 
objects that were lying on the floor at some distance from each 
other. At a first glance they appeared to be very choice exam- 
ples of that charming orchid known as the ‘ Cypripedium,’-— 
but on closer examination it was evident they were merely 
fashionable evening shoes. Again and again he turned his 
eyes away from them, — and again and again his glance invol- 
untarily wandered back and rested on their helpless-looking 
little pointed toes and ridiculously high heels. Considered 
from a purely * sanitary ’ point of view, they were the most 
wicked, the most criminal, the most absolutely unheard-of shoes 
ever seen. Why, no human feet of the proper size could 
possibly get into them, unless they were squeezed 

“Yes, squeezed!” — repeated Walden inwardly, with a sense 
of unreasonable irritation ; “ All the toes cramped and the heels 
pinched — everything out of joint and distorted — false feet, in 
fact, like everything else false that has to do with the modern 
fashionable woman ! ” 

There they lay, — apparently innocent ; — but surely detestable, 
nay even Satanic objects. He determined he would have 
them removed — picked up — cast out — thrust into the nearest 
drawer, anywhere, in fact, provided they were out of his 
stern, clerical sight. Mrs. Spruce was continuing conversation 
in brisk tones, but whether she was addressing him, or the 
buxom young woman, who, under her directions was shaking 
out or folding up the various garments taken out of the various 


God’s Good Man 


79 


boxes, he did not know, and, as a matter of fact, he did not 
care. She sounded like Tennyson’s c Brook,’ with a 1 Men 
may come and men may go, but I go on for ever ’ monotonous- 
ness that was as depressing as it was incessant. 

He determined to interrupt the purling stream. 

“ Mrs. Spruce,” he began, — then hesitated, as she turned 
briskly towards him, looking like a human clothes-prop, with 
both fat arms extended in order to keep well away from 
contact with the floor a gauzy robe sparkling all over with 
tiny crystalline drops, which, catching the sunbeams, flashed 
like little points of flame. 

“ Beggin’ your pardon, Passon, did you speak ? ” 

“Yes. I think you should not let anything lie about, as, 
for example, — those — ” and he pointed to the objectionable 
shoes with an odd sense of discomfiture ; “ They appear to be 
of a delicate colour and might easily get soiled.” 

Mrs. Spruce peered round over the sparkling substance she 
held, looking like a very ancient and red-faced cherub peeping 
over the rim of a moonlit cloud. 

“Well, I never!” she exclaimed; “What a hi you have, 
Passon! What a hi! Now them shoes missed me altogether! 
They must have dropped out of some of the dresses we’ve 
been unfoldin’, for the packin’s quite reckless-like, and ain’t 
never been done by no trained maid. All hustled-bustled like 
into the boxes anyhow, as if the person what had done it was 
in a mortal temper or hurry. Lord ! Don’t I know how people 
crams things in when they’s in a rage! Ah! Wait till I get 
rid of all these diamants,” and she waddled to the deep oak 
wardrobe, which stood open, and carefully hung the glittering 
garment up by its two sleeveholes on two pegs, — then turned 
round with a sigh. “It’s orful what the world’s coming to, 
Passon Walden, — orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a 
gown! I wouldn’t let my Kitty in ’ere for any amount of 
money! She’d be that restless and worritin’ and wantin’ the 
like things for ’erself, and the mortal mischief it would be, 
there’s no knowin’! Why, the first ‘ commercial’ as come 
round ’ere with ’is pack and ’is lies, would get her runnin’ off 
with ’im ! Ah ! That’s jes’ where leddies makes such work for 
Satan’s hands to do ; they never thinks of the envy and jealousy 
and spite as eats away the ’arts of poor gels what sees all these 
fine things, and ain’t got no chance for to have them for their- 
selves ! ” Here, sidling along the floor, she picked up the 
pink shoes to which Walden had called her attention, first 
one and then the other. “ Well! Call them shoes! My Kitty 


8o 


God’s Good Man 


couldn’t get lier ’and into ^m! And as for a foot fitting m! 
What a foot! It can’t be much bigger’n a baby’s. Well, well, 
what a pair o’ shoes ! ” 

She stood looking at them, a fat smile on her face, and 
Walden moved uneasily from the threshold. 

“I’ll leave you now, Mrs. Spruce,” he said; “You have 
plenty to do, and I’m in the way here.” 

“Well, now, Passon, that do beat me!” said Mrs. Spruce 
plaintively ; “ I thought you was a-goin’ to help us ! ” 

“Help you? I?” and Walden laughed aloud; “My dear 
woman, do you think I can unpack and unfold ladies’ dresses ? 
Of all the many incongruous uses a clergyman was ever put 
to, wouldn’t that be the most impossible ? ” 

“Lord love ye, Passon Walden, I ain’t askin’ ye no such 
thing; ” retorted Mrs. Spruce; “ Don’t ye think it! For there’s 
nothin’ like a man, passon or no passon, for makin’ rumples 
of every bit of clothes he touches, even his own coats and 
weskits, and I wouldn’t let ye lay hands on any o’ these things 
to save my life. Why, they’d go to pieces at the mere sight 
of yer fingers, they’re so flimsy! What I thought ye might 
do, was to be a witness to us while we sorted them all. It’s 
a great thing to have a man o’ God as a witness to the likes 
o’ this work ! ” 

Again Walden laughed, this time with very genuine hearti- 
ness, though he did wish Mrs. Spruce would put away the 
troublesome pink shoes which she still held, and to which he 
found his eyes still wandering. 

“Nonsense! You don’t want any witness!” he said gaily; 
“What are you thinking about, Mrs. Spruce? When Miss 
Vancourt is here, all you have to do is to go over every item 
of her property with her, and see that she finds it all right. 
If anything is missing, it’s not your fault.” 

“If anythink’s missing,” echoed Mrs. Spruce in sepulchral 
tones, “then the Lord knows what we’ll do, for it’ll be all 
over, so far as we’re consarned! Beggars in the street’ll be 
kings to us. Passon, I reckon ye doesn’t read the newspapers 
much, does ye ? ” 

“Pretty fairly,” responded Walden still smiling; “I keep 
myself as well acquainted as I can with what is going on in 
the world.” 

“Does ye now?” And Mrs. Spruce surveyed him admir- 
ingly. “ Well, now, I shouldn’t have thought it, for ye seems 
as inn’cent as a babby I do assure ye ; ye seems jes’ that. But 
mebbe ye doesn’t get the same kind o’ newspapers which we 


God’s Good Man 


81 


poor folks gets — reg’ler weekly penny lists o’ murders, soocides, 
railway haccidents, burgul’ries, fires, dropping down dead 
suddint, struck by lightnin’ and collapsis, with remedies 
pervided for all in the advertisements invigoratin’ to both 
old and young, bone and sinew, brain and body, whether it 
be pills, potions, tonics, lotions, ointment or min’ral waters. 
Them’s the sort o’ papers we gets, or rather the ‘ Mother Huff * 
takes ’em all in for us, an’ the ’ole village drinks the ’orrors 
an’ the medicines in with the ale. Ah ! It’s mighty edifyin’, 
Passon, I do assure ye — and many of us goes to church on 
Sundays and reads the ’orrors an’ medicines in the arternoon* 
and whether we remembers your sermon or the ’orrors an’ 
medicines most, the Lord only knows ! But it’s in them papers 
I sees how fine leddies goes on nowadays, and if they misses 
so much as a two-and-sixpenny ’airpin, some of ’em out of 
sheer spite, will ’aul a gel up ’fore the p’lice and ’ave ’er in 
condemned cells in no time, so that ye see, Passon, if so be 
Miss Maryllia counts over the sparkling diamants and one’s 
lost, we’ll all be brought ’fore Sir Morton Pippitt as county 
mag’strate afore we’ve ’ad time to look at our breakfasts. 
Wherefore, I sez, why not ’ave a man o’ God as witness ? ” 

“ Why not, indeed! ” returned Walden, playfully; “ but your 
‘man of God’ won’t be me, Mrs. Spruce! I’m off! I con- 
gratulate you on your preparations, and I think you are doing 
everything splendidly! If Miss Vancourt does not look upon 
you as a positive treasure, I shall be very much mistaken! 
Good afternoon ! ” 

“ Passon, Passon ! ” urged Mrs. Spruce ; “ Ye baint goin’ 
already ? ” 

“ I must ! To-morrow’s Sunday, remember ! ” 

“ Ah ! — that it is ! ” she sighed, “ And my mind sorely mis- 
gives me that I never asked the new servants whether they 
was ’Igh, Low or Roman. It fairly slipped my memory, and 
they seemed never to think of it themselves. Why didn’t 
they remind me, Passon? — can you answer me that? Which 
it proves the despisableness of our naturs that we never thinks 
©f the religious sides of ourselves, but only our wages and 
stummicks. Wages and stummicks comes fust, and the care 
of the Lord Almighty arterwards. But, there, there! — we’re 
jest a perverse and stiffnecked generation ! ” 

Walden turned away. Mrs. Spruce, at last deciding to 
resign her hold of the pink shoes, over whose pointed toes she 
had been moralising, gave them into the care of the rosy- 


82 


God’s Good Man 


cheeked Phyllis, who was assisting her in her labours, and 
followed her ‘ man of God ’ out to the landing. 

“ Do ye reely think we’re doin’ quite right, and that we’re 
quite safe, Passon ? ” she queried, anxiously. 

“ You’re doing quite right, and you’re quite safe,” replied 
Walden, laughing. “ Go on in your present path of virtue, 
Mrs. Spruce, and all will be well! I really cannot wait a 
moment longer. Don’t trouble to come and show me out, — 
I know my way ! ” 

He sprang down the broad stairs as lightly as a boy, leaving 
Mrs. Spruce at the summit, looking wistfully after him. 

“ It’s a pity he couldn’t stay ! ” she murmured, dolefully ; 
“ There’s a lace petticut which must be worth a fortune ! — I’d 
have liked ’im to see it ! ” 

But Walden was beyond recall. On reaching the bottom of 
the staircase he had turned into the picture gallery, a long, 
lofty room panelled with Jacobean oak on both sides and 
hung with choice canvases, the work of the best masters, three 
or four fine Gainsboroughs, Peter Lelys and Romneys being 
among the most notable examples. At one end of the gallery 
a close curtain of dark green baize covered a picture which 
was understood to be the portrait of the Mrs. Yancourt who 
had never lived to see her intended home. The late Squire 
had himself put up that curtain, and no one had ever dared to 
lift it. Mrs. Spruce had often been asked to do so, but she 
invariably refused, ‘ not wishin’ to be troubled with ghosteses 
of the old Squire,’ as she frankly explained. Facing this, at 
the opposite end, hung another picture, disclosed in all its 
warm and brilliant colouring to the light of day, — the picture 
of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, who, in the time 
of Charles the Second had been a noted beauty of the ‘ merry 
monarch’s ’ reign, and whose counterfeit presentment Mrs. 
Spruce had styled ‘ the lady in the vi’let velvet.’ John Walden 
had suddenly taken a fancy to look at this portrait though for 
ten years he had known it well. 

He walked up to it now slowly, studying it critically as the 
light fell on its rich colouring. The painted lady had a won- 
derfully attractive face, — the face of a child, piquante, smiling 
and provocative, — her eyes were witching blue, with a moon- 
light halo of grey between the black pupil and the azure 
iris, — her mouth, a trifle large, but pouting in the centre and 
curved in the ‘ Cupid’s bow ’ line, suggested sweetness and 
passion, and her hair, — but surely her hair was indescribable! 
The painter of Charles the Second’s time had apparently found 


God’s Good Man 


»3 

it difficult to deal with, — for there was a warm brown wave 
there, a tiny reddish ripple behind the small ear, and a flash of 
golden curls over the white brow, suggestive of all the tints 
of spring and autumn sunshine. Habited in a riding dress 
of velvet the colour of a purple pansy, Mary Elia Adelgisa held . 
her skirt, white gauntleted gloves, and riding whip daintily 
in one hand, — her hat, a three-cornered piece of coquetry, 
lay ready for wear, on a garden-seat hard by, — a blush rosebud 
was fastened carelessly in her close-fitting bodice, which was ^ 
turned back with embroidered gold revers, and over her head, - 
great forest trees, heavy with foliage, met in an arch of green. " 
John Walden stood for a quiet three minutes, studying the 
picture intently and also the superscription : “ Mary Elia 

Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, Born May 1st, 1651: Wedded her 
cousin, Geoffrey de Vaignecourt, June 5th, 1671: Died May 
30th, 1681.” 

“Hot a very long life! ” he mused: “ All the Vaignecourts, 
or Vancourts, have died somewhat early.” 

He let his eyes rest again on the portrait lingeringly. 

“ Mary Elia ! I wonder if her descendant, 1 Maryllia/ is 
anything like her ? ” 

Slowly turning, he went out of the picture gallery, across 
the hall and into the garden, where the faithful Nebbie was 
waiting for him, amid a company of pigeons who were busy 
picking up what they fancied from the gravelled path, and who 
were utterly unembarrassed by the constant waggings of the 
terrier’s rough tail. And he walked somewhat abstractedly 
through the old paved court, past the unsympathetic sun-dial, 
and out through the great gates, which were guarded on either 
side by stone griffins, gripping in their paws worn shields 
decorated with defaced tracings of the old Vaignecourt 
emblems. Clematis clasped these fabulous beasts in a dainty 
embrace, winding little tendrils of delicate green over their 
curved claws, and festooning their savage-looking heads with 
large star-like flowers of white and pale mauve, and against one 
of the weather-beaten shields an early flowering red rose leaned 
its perfumed head in blushing crimson confidence. Halting a 
moment in his onward pace, Walden paused, and looked back 
at the scene regretfully. 

“ Dear old place ! ” he said half aloud ; “ Many and many 
a happy hour have I passed in it, loving it, reverencing it, 
honouring its every stone, — as all such relics of a chivalrous 
and gracious past deserve to be loved, reverenced and hon- 
oured. But I fear, — yes! — I fear I shall never again see it 


84 


God’s Good Man 


quite as I have seen it for tlie past ten years, — or as I see it 
now! New days, new ways! And I am not progressive. To 
me the old days and old ways are best 1 ” 




* * * “ \ nd the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, tw 

"♦Son and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and re- 
main with you always ! ” 

So prayed John Walden, truly and tenderly, stretching out 
his hands in benediction over the bent heads of his little 
congregation, which responded with a fervent * Amen/ 

Service was over, and the good folks of St. Rest wended 
their gradual way out of church to the full sweet sound of an 
organ voluntary, played by Miss Jinet Eden, who, as all the 
village said of her , c was a rare ’and at doin’ the music proper/ 
Each man and woman wore their Sunday best, — each girl had 
some extra bit of finery on, and each lad sported either a 
smart necktie or wore a flower in his buttonhole, as a testimony 
to the general festal feeling inspired by a day when ordinary 
work is set aside for the mingled pleasures of prayer, medi- 
tation and promiscuous love-making. The iconoclasts who 
would do away with the appointed seventh day of respite from 
the hard labours of every-day life, deserve hanging without the 
mercy of trial. A due observance of Sunday, and especially 
the English country observance of Sunday, is one of the saving 
graces of our national constitution. In the large towns, a 
growing laxity concerning the ‘ keeping of the seventh day 
holy/ is plainly noticeable, the pernicious example of London 
‘ smart’ society doing much to lessen the old feeling of re- 
spect for the day and its sacredness; but in small greenwood 
places, where it is still judged decent and obedient to the laws 
of God, to attend Divine worship at least once a day, — when 
rough manual toil is set aside, and the weary and soiled la- 
bourer takes a pleasure in being clean, orderly and cheerfully 
respectful to his superiors, Sunday is a blessing and an educa- 
tional force that can hardly be over-estimated. 

In such a peaceful corner as St. Rest it was a very day 
of days. Tourists seldom disturbed its tranquillity, the 

* Mother Huff ’ public-house affording but sorry entertainment 
to such parties; the motor-bicycle, with its detestable noise, 
insufferable odour and dirty, oil-stained rider in goggled spec- 
tacles, was scarcely ever seen, — and motor-cars always turned 

& 


85 


Gods Good Man 


another way on leaving the county town of Riversford, in 
order to avoid the sharp ascent from the town, as well as 
the still sharper and highly dangerous descent into the valley 
again, where the little mediaeval village lay nestled. Thus 
it was enabled to gather to itself a strangely beautiful halcyon 
calm on the Lord’s Day, — and in fair Spring weather like the 
present, dozed complacently under the quiet smile of serene 
blue skies, soothed to sleep by the rippling flow of its ribbon- 
like river, and receiving from hour to hour a fluttering halo of 
doves’ wings, as these traditional messengers of peace flew oyer 
the quaint old houses, or rested on the gabled roofs, spreading 
out their snowy tails like fans to the warmth of the sun. The 
churchyard was the recognised meeting-place for all the gossips 
of the village after the sermon was over and the blessing 
pronounced, — and the brighter and warmer the " weather, the 
longer and more desultory the conversation. 

On this special Sunday, the worthy farmers and their wives, 
with their various cronies and confidants, gathered together in 
larger groups than usual, and lingered about more than was 
even their ordinary habit. Their curiosity was excited, — so 
were their faculties of criticism. The new servants from the 
Manor had attended church, sitting all together in a smart 
orderly row, and suggesting in their neat spick-and-span attire 
an unwonted note of novelty, of fashion, of change, nay, even 
of secret and suppressed society wickedness. Their looks, their 
attitudes, their whisperings, their movements, furnished plenty 
of matter to talk about, — particularly as Mrs. Spruce had 
apparently < given herself airs ’ and marshalled them in and 
marshalled them out again, without stopping to talk to her 
village friends as usual, — which was indeed a veritable marvel, 
— or to vouchsafe any information respecting 'the expected re- 
turn of her new mistress, an impending event which was now 
well known throughout the whole neighbourhood. Oliver 
Leach, the land agent, had arrived at the church-door in an 
open dog-cart, and had sat through the service looking as 
black as thunder, or as Bainton elegantly expressed it : ‘as 
cheerful as a green apple with a worm in it.’ Afterwards, he 
had driven off at a rattling pace, exchanging no word with 
anyone. Such conduct, so the village worthies opined, was 
bound to be included among the various signs and tokens 
which were ominous of a coming revolution in the moral and 
domestic atmosphere of St. Best. 

Then again, the ( Passon’s ’ sermon that morning had been 
something of a failure. Walden himself, all the time he was 


God’s Good Man 87 

engaged in preaching it, had known that it was a lame, halting 
and perfunctory discourse, and he had felt fully conscious that 
a patient tolerance of him on the part of his parishioners had 
taken the place of the respectful interest and attention they 
usually displayed. He was indeed sadly at a loss concerning 
‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit/ He had desired 
to recommend the cultivation of such a grace in the most 
forcible manner, yet he found himself wondering why fashion- 
able women wore pink shoes much smaller than the natural 
size of the human foot? To be ‘meek and quiet 9 was surely 
an excellent thing, but then it was impossible for any man 
with blood in his veins to feel otherwise than honestly indig- 
nant at the extravagance displayed by certain modern ladies in 
the selection of. their gowns! Flashing sparks of pearl and 
crystal sewn on cloud-like tissues and chiffons, danced before 
his eyes, as he ponderously weighed out the spiritual advan- 
tages of being meek and quiet; and his metaphors became as 
hazy as the deductions he drew from his text were vague and 
difficult to follow. He was uncomfortably conscious of a 
slight flush rising to his face, as he met the bland enquiring 
stare of Sir Morton Pippitt’s former butler — now on ‘ temp’ry 9 
service at the Manor, — he became aware that there was also 
a new and rather pretty housemaid beside the said butler, who 
whispered when she ought to have been silent, — and he saw 
blankness on the fat face of Mrs. Spruce, a face which was tied 
up like a round red damaged sort of fruit in a black basket- 
like bonnet, fastened with very broad violet strings. How 
Mrs. Spruce always paid the most pious attention to his 
sermons, and jogged her husband at regular intervals to 
prevent that worthy man from dozing, though she knew he 
could not hear a word of anything that was said, and that, 
therefore, he might as well have been allow( i to sleep, — but 
on this occasion John was sure that even ffie failed to be 
interested in his observations on that c ornament/ which she 
called ‘homament/ of the meek and quiet spirit, pronounced 
to be of such ‘ great price/ He realised that if any ‘ great 
price 9 was at all in question with her that morning, it was the 
possible monetary value of her new lady’s wardrobe. So that 
on the whole he was very glad when he came to the end of 
his ramble among strained similes, and was able to retire 
altogether from the gaze of the different pairs of eyes, cow-like, 
sheep-like, bird-like, dog-like, and human, which in their faith- 
ful watching of his face as he preached, often moved him to 
a certain embarrassment, though seldom as much as on this 


88 


God’s Good Man 


occasion. With his disappearance from the pulpit, and his 
subsequent retreat round by the back of the churchyard into 
the privacy of his own garden, the tongues of the gossips, 
restrained as long as their minister was likely to be within 
earshot, broke loose and began to wag with glib rapidity. 

“ Look ’ee ’ere, Tummas,” said one short, thick-set man, 
addressing Bainton ; “ Look ’ee ’ere — thy measter baint oop 
to mark this marnin’ ! Seemed as if he couldn’t find the ways 
nor the meanin’s o’ the Lord nohow ! ” 

Bainton slowly removed his cap from his head and looked 
thoughtfully into the lining, as though seeking for inspiration 
there, before replying. The short, thick-set man was an 
important personage, — no less than the proprietor of the 
i Mother Huff ’ public-house ; and not only was he proprietor 
of the said public-house, but brewer of all the ale he sold 
there. Boger Buggins was a man to be reckoned with, and 
he expected to be treated with almost as much consideration 
as the ‘Passon’ himself. Buggins wore a very ill-fitting 
black suit on Sundays, which made him look like a cross 
between a waiter and an undertaker; and he also supported 
on his cranium a very tall top-hat with an extra wide brim, 
suggesting in its antediluvian shape a former close acquaint- 
ance with cast-off clothing stores. 

“ He baint himself,” — reiterated Buggins emphatically ; 
“He was fair mazed and dazed with his argifyin’. ‘Meek 
and quiet sperrit’! Who wants the like o’ that in this ’ere 
mortal wurrld, where we all commences to fight from the 
moment we lays in our cradles till the last kick we gives ’fore 
we goes to our graves? Meek and quiet goes to prison more 
often than rough and ready ! ” 

“Mebbe Passon Walden was thinkin’ of Oliver Leach,” 
suggested Bainton with a slight twinkle in his eye; “And 
’ow m’appen we’d b st be all of us meek and quiet when he’s 
by. It might be so, Mr. Buggins, — Passon’s a rare one to 
guess as ’ow the wind blows nor’-nor’-east sometimes in the 
village, for all that it’s a warm day and the peas cornin’ 
on beautiful. Eh, now, Mr. Buggins ? ” This with a concili- 
atory air, for Bainton had a little reckoning at the ‘ Mother 
Huff ’ and desired to be all that was agreeable to its 
proprietor. 

Buggins snorted a defiant snort. 

“ Oliver Leach indeed ! ” he ejaculated. “ Meek an’ quiet 
suits him down to the ground, it do! There’s a man wot’s 
likely to have a kindly note of warnin’ from my best fist, 


God's Good Man 89 

jf he comes larrupin’ round my place too often. ’Ave ye 
’eard as ’ow he’s chalked the Five Sisters?” 

u Now don't go for to say that ! ” expostulated Bainton 
gently. “ ’E runs as near the wind as he can, but ’e’d never 
be stark starin’ mad enough to chalk the Five Sisters ! ” 

“ Chalk ’em ’e has ! ” returned Buggins, putting quite a 
strong aspirate where he generally left it out, — “ And down 
they’re cornin’ on Wednesday marnin’. Which I sez yeste’day 
to Adam Frost ’ere: if the Five Sisters is to lay low, what 
next ? ” 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” chorussed several other villagers who had been 
listening eagerly to the conversation; “You say true, Mr. 
Buggins — you say gospel true. If the Five Sisters lay low, 
what next ! ” 

And dismal shakings of the head and rollings of the eyes 
from all parties followed this proposition. 

“ What next,” echoed the sexton, Adam Frost, who on 
hearing his name brought into the argument, showed himself 
at once ready to respond to it. “Why next we’ll not have a 
tree of any size anywhere near the village, for if timber’s to be 
sold, sold it will be, and the only person we’ll be able to rely 
on for a bit of green shade or shelter will be Passon Walden, 
who wouldn’t have a tree cut down anywhere on his land, no, 
not if he was starving. Ah ! If the old Squire were alive he’d 
sooner have had his own ’ead chopped off than the Five Sisters 
laid low ! ” 

By this time a considerable number of the villagers had 
gathered round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion, 
— some out of curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely 
erroneous idea that perhaps if they took the proper side of 
the argument 1 refreshers ’ in the way of draughts of home- 
brewed ale at the ( Mother Huff ’ between church hours might 
be offered as an amicable end to the conversation. 

“ Someone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; she’s coming 
home to the Manor on Tuesday,” suggested the barmaid of 
the ‘ Mother Huff,’ a smart -looking young woman, who was 
however looked upon with grave suspicion by her feminine 
neighbours, because she dressed f beyond her station’; “P’raps 
she’d do something?” 

“Not she!” said Frost, cynically; “She’s a fine lady, — 
been livin’ with ’Mericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast 
in order to write about it to the papers arterwards. Them 
sort of women takes no ’count o’ trees, except to make money 
*>ut of ’em.” 


90 


God’s Good Man 


Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw 
a familiar figure slowly approaching them, — that of a very old 
man, wearing a particularly clean smock-frock and a large 
straw hat, who came out from under the church porch like a 
quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch picture. Shuffling along, one 
halting step at a time, and supporting himself on a stout ash 
stick, this venerable personage made his way, with a singular 
doggedness and determination of movement, up to the group 
of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, 
and producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior 
wiped the top of his bald head vigorously. 

“ Now, what are ye at?” he said slowly; “ What are ye at? 
All clickettin’ together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! 
What’s the mischief? WLose character are ye bitin’ bits out 
of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty- 
nine years o’ livin’ wi’ ye, summer in and summer out, don’t 
improve ye, — talk to ye as I will and as I may, ye’re all as 
mis’able sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye 
’cept the one in the Sarky Eagus.” 

Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head 
again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray 
wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior 
wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun- 
browned face, like a ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling 
reflections on a half -frozen pool. 

< “ We ain’t doin’ nothin’, Josey!” said Buggifis, almost 
timidly. 

“ Nor we ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” added Bainton. 

“We be as harmless as doves,” put in Adam Erost with a 
sly chuckle; “and we ain’t no match for sarpints!” 

“ Ain’t you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow ! ” ejaculated the 
smartly dressed barmaid; “Just wonderful for your time of 
life ! ” 

“ My time o’ life ? ” And J osey Letherbarrow surveyed the 
young woman with an inimitable expression of disdain ; “ Well, 
it’s a time o’ life yov/ll never reach, sane or sound, my gel, 
take.my word for’t! Eine feathers makes fine birds, hut the 
life is more’n the meat and the body more’n raiment. And as 
for ’armless as doves and no match for sarpints, ye may be 
all that and more, which is no sort of argyment and when I 
sez ‘ what mischief are ye all up to ’ I sez it, and expecks a 
hamser, and a harnser I’ll ’ave, or I’ll reckon to know the 
reason why ! ” 

The men and women glanced at each other. It wag 


God’s Good Man 


91 


unnecessary, and it would certainly be inhuman, to irritate 
old Josey Letherbarrow, considering bis great age and various 
infirmities. 

“We was jest a-sayin’ a word or two about the Five Sisters 
■ — ” began Adam Frost. 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” said J osey ; “ That ye may do and no ’arm come 
of it; I knows ’em well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all 

England! Ay! ay! th’ owld Squire was main proud of ’em 
» 

“ They be cornin’ down,” said Buggins ; “ Oliver Leach’s 
chalk mark’s on ’em for Wednesday marnin’.” 

“Cornin’ down!” echoed Josey — “ Cornin’ down? Gar’n 
with ye all for a parcel o’ silly idgits wi’ neither rhyme nor 
reason nor backbone! Cornin’ down! Why ye might as well 
tell me the Manor House was bein’ turned into a cow-shed! 
Cornin’ down ! Gar’n ! ” 

“ It’s true, Josey,” said Adam Frost, beginning to make his 
way towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied 
one of his numerous ‘ olive-branches,’ frantically beckoning 
him home to dinner, and he knew by stern experience what it 
meant if Mrs. Frost and the family were kept waiting for the 
Sunday’s meal. “ It’s true, and you’ll find it so. And whether 
it’ll be any good speakin’ to the new lady who’s cornin’ home 
on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters won’t be all corpses 
afore she comes, there’s no knowin’. The Lord He gave the 
trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take ’em 
away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is 
mighty doubtful ! ” 

Old Josey looked stupefied. 

“ The Five Sisters cornin’ down ! ” he repeated dully ; 
“May you never live to do my buryin’, Adam Frost, if it’s 
true ! — and that’s the worst wish I can give ye ! ” 

But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic 
belongings, and hurried away without response. 

Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and 
then resumed his slow shuffling way. Any one of the men or 
women near him would have willingly given him a hand to 
assist his steps, but they all knew that he would be highly 
incensed if they dared to show that they considered him in any 
way feeble or in need of support. So they contented them- 
selves with accompanying him at his own snail’s pace, and at 
such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he 
might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area 
in which he chose to stump along homewards. 


92 


God’s Good Man 


“ The Five Sisters comm’ down, and the old Squired 
daughter comm’ ? ome ! ” he muttered ; “ They two things is 
like ile and water, — nothin’ ’ull make ’em mix. The Squire’s- 
daughter — ay — ay! It seems but only yeste’day the Squire 
died! And she was a fine mare that threw him, too, — Fire- 
fly was her name. Ay — ay! It seems but yeste’day — but 
yeste’day ! ” 

64 D’ye mind the Squire’s daughter, Josey? ” asked one of the 
village women sauntering a little nearer to him. 

“Mind her?” And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly. 
“Do I mind my own childer? It seems but yeste’day, I 
tell ye, that the Squire died, but mebbe it’s a matter of six-an’- 
twenty ’ear agone since ’e came to me where I was a-workin* 
in ’is fields, and he pinted out to me the nurse wot was walkin’ 
up and down near the edge of the pasture carryin’ his baby 
all in long clothes. 4 See that, Josey!’ he sez, an’ ’is eyes- 
were all wild-like an’ ’is lips was a’ tremblin’ ; 1 That little 
white thing is all I’ve got left of the wife I was bringin’ ’om& 
to he the sunshine of the old Manor. I felt like killin’ that 
child, Josey, when it was horn, because its cornin’ into this 
wurrld killed its mother. That was an unnat’ral thing, Josey,’ 
sez he — ‘ There was no God in it, only a devil ! ’ and ’is lips 
trembled more’n ever — ‘no woman ought to die in givin’ 
birth to a child — it’s jes’ wicked an’ cruel! I would say 
that to God Himself, if I knew Him ! ’ An’ he clenched ’is 
fist ’ard, an’ then ’e went on — ‘ But though I wanted to kill 
the little creature, I couldn’t do it, Josey, I couldn’t! It’s 
eyes were like those of my Dearest. So I let it live; an’ I’ll 
do my best by it, Josey,’ — yes, them’s the words ’e said — ‘I’ll 
do my best by it ! ’ ” 

Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his 
crawling pace. 

“You ain’t finished, ’ave ye, Josey?” said Roger Buggins 
propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man. “ It’s powerful 
interestin’, all this ’ere ! ” 

Josey halted again. 

“Powerful interestin’? O’ course it is! There ain’t no- 
body’s story wot ain’t interestin’, if ye onny knows it. An* 
it’s all six-an’-twenty year agone now; but I can see th’ owld 
Squire still, an’ the nurse walkin’ slow up an’ down by the 
border of the field, hushin’ the baby to sleep. And ’twas a 
good sound baby, too, an’ thrived fine; an’ ’fore we knew 
where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin* 
wild all over the place, climbin’ trees, swarmin’ up hay-stacks, 


God’s Good Man 


93 


an’ up to all sorts of mischief — Lord, Lord!” And Josey 
began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment ; “ I’ll 
never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses’ nest 
an’ got all ’er little legs stung; — she was about five ’ear old 
then, an’ she never cried — not she! — the little proud spitfire 
that she was, she jes’ stamped ’er mite of a foot an’ she sez, 
sez she : 4 Did God make the wopses ? ’ An’ ’er nurse sez to 
’er : 4 Yes, o’ course, lovey, God made ’em.’ 4 Then I don’t 

think much of Him ! ’ sez she. Lord, Lord ! We larfed nigh 
to split ourselves that arternoon; — we was all makin’ ’ay an’ 
th’ owld Squire was workin’ wi’ us for fun-like. 4 1 don’t 
think much o’ God, father ! ’■ — sez Miss Maryllia, runnin’ up 
to ’im, an’ liftin’ up all ’er petticuts an’ shewin’ the purtiest 
Uttle legs ye ever seed; 4 Nurse sez He made the wopses!’ 
He-ee-ee-hor-hor-hor ! ” 

A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who 
heard this story, — a smile that implied lurking doubt as to 
whether it was quite the correct or respectful thing to find 
entertainment in an anecdote which included a description 
of 4 the purtiest little legs’ of the lady of the Manor whose 
return to her native home was so soon expected, — but Josey 
Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he might say 
what others dared not. As philosopher, general moralist and 
purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the 
village as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions 
or disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge. 
Born in St. Best, he had never been out of it, except on an 
occasional jaunt to Biversford in the carrier’s cart. He had 
married a lass of the village, who had been his playmate in 
childhood, and who, after giving him four children, had died 
when she was forty, — the four children had grown up and in 
their turn had married and died; but he, like a hardy old 
tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well fixed in the soil 
that had bred him. Life had now become a series of dream 
pictures with him, representing every episode of his experience. 
His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom 
failed to recollect every detail of a circumstance when once, 
the clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was 
stirred. To these qualities he added a stock of good sound 
common sense, with a great equableness of temperament,, 
though he could be cynical, and even severe, when occasion 
demanded. Just now, however, his venerable countenance 
was radiant, — his few remaining tufts of white hair glistened 
in the sun like spun silver, — his figure in its homely smock. 


94 


God’s Good Man 


leaning on the rough ash stick, expressed in its very attitude 
benevolence and good-humour, and ‘the purtiest little legs’ 
had evidently conjured up a vision of childish grace and 
innocence before his eyes, which he was loth to let go. 

“ She was took away arter the old Squire was killed, worn’t 
she? ” asked Bainton, who was drinking in all the information 
he could, in order to have something to talk about to his 
master, when the opportunity offered itself. 

“Ay! ay! She was took away,” replied Josey, his smile 
darkening into a shadow of weariness ; “ The Squire’s neck 
was broke with Firefly — every man, woman and child knows 
that about here — an’ then ’is brother came along, ’im wot ’ad 
married a ’Merican wife wi’ millions, an’ ’adn’t got no 
children of their own. An’ they took the gel away with ’em — 
a purty little slip of about fifteen then, with great big eyes and 
A lot of bright ’air ; — don’t none of ye remember ’er ? ” 

Mr. Buggins shook his head. 

“ ’Twas afore my time,” he said. “ I ain’t had the ‘ Mother 
Huff’ more’n eight years.” 

“ I seed ’er once,” said Bainton — “ but onny once — that 
was when I was workin’ for the Squire as extra ’and. But I 
disremember ’er face.’ ’ 

“Then ye never looked at it,” said Josey, with a chuckle; 
“ or bein’ made man ye wouldn’t ’ave forgot it. Howsomever, 
it’s ’ears ago an’ she’s a woman growed — she ain’t been near 
the place all this time, which shows as ’ow she don’t care 
about it, bein’ took up with ’er ’Merican aunt and the mil- 
lions. An’ she’d got a nice little penny of ’er own, too, 
for the old Squire left ’er all he ’ad, an’ she was to come into 
it all when she was of age. An’ now she’s past bein’ of age, 
a woman of six-an’-twenty, — an’ ’er rich uncle’s dead, they 
say, so I suppose she an’ the ’Merican aunt can’t work it out 
together. Eh, dear! Well, well! Changes there must be, 
and changes there will be, and if the Five Sisters is a-comin’ 
down, then there’s ill-luck brewin’ for the village, an’ for every 
man, woman and child in it ! Mark my wurrd ! ” 

And he resumed his hobbling trudge, shaking his head 
dolefully. 

“Don’t say that, Josey!” murmured one of the women 
with a little shudder ; “ You didn’t ought to talk about ill-luck. 
Don’t ye know it’s onlucky to talk about ill-luck?” 

“No, I don’t know nothin’ o’ the sort,” replied Josey, 
“ Luck there is, and ill-luck, — an’ ye can talk as ye like about 
one or t’other, it don’t make no difference. An’ there’s some 


God’s Good Man 


95 


things as comes straight from the Lord, and there’s others 
what comes straight from the devil, an’ ye’ve got to take them 
as they comes. ’Tain’t no use floppin’ on yer knees an’ cryin’ 
on either the Lord or the devil, — they’s outside of ye an’ jest 
amusin’ theirselves as they likes. Hussy on me! D’ye think 
I don’t know when the Lord ’ides ’is face behind the clouds 
playin’ peep-bo for a bit, and lets the devil ’ave it all ’is own 
way? An’ don’t I know ’ow, when old Nick is jes’ in the thick 
o’ the fun ’avin’ a fine time with the poor silly souls o’ men, 
the Lord suddenly comes out o’ the cloud and sez, sez He: 
* Now ’nuff o’ this ’ere; get thee behind me!’ An’ then — 
an’ then — ,” here Josey paused and struck his staff violently 
into the earth, — “ an’ then there’s a noise as of a mighty wind 
rushin’, an’ the angels all falls to trumpetin’ an’ cries: 
4 Alleluia ! Lift up your ’eads ye everlasting gates that the 
King of Glory may come in ’ ! ” 

The various village loafers sauntering beside their venerable 
prophet, listened to this outburst with respectful awe. 

“ He’s meanderin’,” said Bainton in a low tone to the portly 
proprietor of the 4 Mother Huff ’ ; “ It’s wonderful wot poltry 
there is in ’im, when ’e gives way to it ! ” 

‘ Poltry ’ was the general term among the frequenters of the 
4 Mother Huff ’ for ‘ poetry.’ 

66 Ay, ay ! ” replied Buggins, somewhat condescendingly, as 
one who bore in mind that he was addressing a creditor ; “ I 
don’t understan’ poltry myself, but Josey speaks fine when he 
has a mind to — there’s no doubt of that. Look ’ee ’ere, now; 
there’s Ipsie Frost runnin’ to ’im!” 

And they all turned their eyes on a flying bundle of curls, 
rosy cheeks, fat legs and clean pinafore, that came speeding 
towards old Josey, with another young feminine creature 
scampering after it crying: 

“Ipsie! Hip-po-ly-ta ! Baby! Come back to your din- 
ner ! ” 

But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have 
her own way, and she ran straight up to Josey Lether- 
barrow as though he were the one choice hero picked out 
of a world. 

“ Zozey ! ” she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, 
mottled arms ; “ My own bootif ul Zozey-posey ! Turn and 
pick fowers ! ” 

With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught 
the edge of the old man’s smock. 


q 6 God’s Good Man 

“My Zozey,” she said purringly, "’Oo vezy old, but I 
loves ’oo ! ” 

A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group. 
They were all accustomed to Ipsie’s enthusiasms. J osey 
[Letherbarrow paused a minute to allow his small admirer to 
take firm hold of his garments, and patted her little head with 
his brown wrinkled hand. 

" We’se goin’ sweetheartin’, ain’t we, Ipsie,” he said gently, 
the beautiful smile that made his venerable face so fine and 
lovable, again lighting up his sunken eyes. " Come along, 
little lass! Come along!” 

" She ain’t finished her dinner ! ” breathlessly proclaimed a 
long-legged girl of about ten, who had run after the child, 
teeing one of her numerous sisters; "Mother said she was to 
come back straight.” 

"I s’ant go back!” declared Ipsie defiantly; "Zozey and 
me’s sweetheartin’ ! ” 

Old Josey chuckled. 

" That’s so ! So we be ! ” he said tranquilly ; " Come along 
little lass ! Come along ! ” And to the panting sister of 
the tiny autocrat, he said: "You go on, my gel! I’ll bring 
the baby, ’oldin’ on jest as she is now to my smock. She 
won’t stir more’n a fond bird wot’s stickin’ its little claws into 
ye for shelter. I’ll bring ’er along ’ome, an’ she’ll finish ’er 
dinner fine, like a real good baby! Come along, little lass! 
Come along ! ” 

So murmuring, the old man and young child went on 
together, and the group of villagers dispersed. Roger Buggins, 
however, paused a moment before turning up the lane which 
led to the ‘ Mother Huff.’ 

" You tell Passon,” he said addressing Bainton, " You tell 
(him as ’ow the Five Sisters be chalked for layin’ low on 
Wednesday marnin’ ! ” 

" Never fear ! ” responded Bainton ; " I’ll tell ’im. If 
’tworn’t Sunday, I’d tell ’im now, but it’s onny fair he should 
’ave a bit o’ peace on the seventh day like the rest of us. 
He’ll be fair mazed like when he knows it, — ay ! and I 
shouldn’t wonder if he gave Oliver Leach a bit of ’is mind. 
For all that he’s so quiet, there’s a real devil in ’im wot the 
sperrit o’ God keeps down, — but it’s there, lurkin’ low in ’is 
mind, an’ when ’is eyes flashes blue like lightnin’ afore a storm, 
the devil looks straight out of ’im, it do reely now ! ” 

“Well, well!” said Buggins, tolerantly, with the dignified 
air of one closing the discussion; "Devil or no devil, you 


God’s Good Man 97 

tell ’im as ’ow the Five Sisters be chalked for layin’ low on 
Wednesday marnin\ Good day t’ye I ” 

“ Good day ! ” responded Bainton, and the two worthies 
’’'a-rted, each to go on their several ways, Buggins to the 
* Mother Huff * from whose opened latticed windows the smell 
of roast beef and onions, which generally composed the 
Buggins’ Sunday meal, came in odorous whiffs down the little 
lane, almost smothering the delicate perfume of the sprout- 
ing sweet-briar hedges on either side, and the nodding 
cowslips in the grass below; Bainton to his own cottage on 
the border of his master’s grounds, a pretty little dwelling with 
a thatched roof almost overgrown with wistaria just breaking 
into flower. 

Far away from St. Best, the greater world swung on its 
way; the whirl of society, politics, fashion and frivolity re- 
volved like the wheel in a squirrel’s cage, round which the 
poor little imprisoned animal leaps and turns incessantly in 
a miserable make-believe of forest freedom, — but to the old 
gardener who lifted the latch of his gate and went in to the 
Sunday dinner prepared for him by his stout and energetic 
helpmate, who was one of the best dairy-women in the whole 
countryside, there was only one grave piece of news in the 
universe worth considering or discussing, and that was the 
‘ layin’ low of the Five Sisters.’ 

“Never!” said Mrs. Bainton, as she set a steaming beef- 
steak pudding in its basin on the table and briskly untied the 
ends of the cloth in which it had been boiling. a Never, 
Tom! You don’t tell me! The Five Sisters cornin’ down! 
Why, what is Oliver Leach thinking about ? ” 

“ Himself, I reckon ! ” responded her husband, u and his 
own partikler an’ malicious art o’ forestry. Which consists in 
barin’ the land as if it was a judge’s chin, to be clean-shaved 
every marnin’. My wurrd! Won’t Passon Walden be just 
wild! M’appen he’s heard of it already, for he seems main 
worrited about somethin’ or other. I’ve alius thought ’im 
wise-like an’ sensible for a man in the Church wot ain’t got 
much chance of knowin’ the wurrld, but he was jes’ meanderin’ 
along to-day — meanderin’ an’ jabberin’ about a meek an’ quiet 
sperrit, as if any of us wanted that kind o’ thing ’ere! Why 
it’s fightin’ all the time! If ’tain’t Sir Morton Pippitt, it’s 
Leach, an’ if ’tain’t Leach it’s Putty Leveson — an’ if ’tain’t 
Leveson, why it’s Adam Frost an’ his wife, an’ if ’tain’t Frost 
an’ his wife, why it’s you an’ me, old gel! We can get up a 
Freese as well as any couple wot was ever jined in the bonds 


God’s Good Man 


98 

of ’oly matterimony ! Hor-hor-hor ! * Meek an’ quiet sperrit, 1 

sez he — ‘ have all of ye meek an’ quiet sperrits ’ ! Why he 
ain’t got one of ’is own ! Wait till he ’ears of the Five Sisters 
cornin’ down! See ’im then! Or wait till Miss Vancourt 
arrives an’ begins to muddle round with the church ! ” 

“ Nonsense ! She won’t muddle round with the church,” 
said Mrs. Bainton cheerfully, sitting down to dinner opposite 
her husband, 1 What nesh fools men are, to be sure ! Every- 
one says she’s a fine lady ’customed to all sorts of show and 
gaiety and the like — what will she want to do with the church ? 
Ten to one she never goes inside it ! ” 

“ You shouldn’t bet, old woman, ’tain’t moral,” said Bainton, 
with a chuckle; “You ain’t got ten to bet agin one— we 
couldn’t spare so much. If she doos nothing else, she’ll dekrate 
the church at ’Arvest ’Ome an’ Christmas — that’s wot leddies 
alius fusses about — dekratin’. Lord, Lord! The mess they 
makes when they starts on it, an’ the mischief they works! 
Tearin’ down the ivy, scrattin’ up the moss, pullin’ an’ grabbin’ 
at the flowers wot’s taken months to grow, — for all the wurrld 
as if they was cats out for a ’oliday. I tell ye it’s been a 
speshel providence for us ’ere, that Passon Walden ain’t got no 
wife, — if he ’ad, she’d a been at the dekratin’ game long afore 
now. Our church would be jes’ spoilt with a lot o’ trails 
o’ weed round it — but you mark my wurrd! — Miss Vancourt 
will be dekratin’ the Saint in the coffin at ’Arvest ’Ome wi’ 
corn and pertaters an’ vegetable marrers, all a-growin’ and 
a-blowin’ afore we knows it. There ain’t no sense o’ fitness 
in the feminine natur ! ” 

Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly. 

“ That’s quite true ! ” she agreed ; “ If there were, I shouldn’t 
have made Sunday pudding for a man who talks too much to 
eat it while it’s hot. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Tom! 
— use it for tastin’ jes’ now an’ agin ! ” 

Bainton took the hint and subsided into silent enjoyment of 
his food. Only once again he spoke in the course of the meal, 
and that was during the impressive pause between pudding and 
cheese. 

“ When he knows as ’ow the Five Sisters be chalked, Passon 
Walden’s sure to do somethin’,” he said. 

“ Ay ! ” responded his wife thoughtfully; “ he’s sure to do 
something.” 

“ What d’ye think he’ll do ? ” queried Bainton, somewhat 
anxiously. 

u Oh, you know best, Tom,” replied his buxom partner, set- 


God’s Good Man 


qg 

ting a flat Dutch cheese before him and a jug of foaming beer; 
“ There ain’t no sense o’ fitness in me, bein’ a woman l You 
know best ! ” 

Bainton lowered his eyes sheepishly. As usual his better 
half had closed the argument unanswerably. 


VII 


<Jeldom in the placid course of years had St. Rest ever 
^belied its name, or permitted itself to suffer loss of 
dignity by any undue display of excitement. The arrival of 
John Walden as minister of the parish, — the re-building of the 
church, and the discovery of the mediaeval sarcophagus, which 
old Josey Letherbarrow always called the Sarky Fagus, 
together with the consecration ceremony by Bishop Brent, — 
were the only episodes in ten years that had moved it slightly 
from its normal calm. For though rumours of wars and vari- 
ous other mishaps and tribulations, reached it through the 
medium of the newspapers in the ordinary course, it concerned 
itself not at all with these, such matters being removed and 
apart from its own way of life and conduct. It was a little 
world in itself, and had only the vaguest interest in any other 
world, save perhaps the world to come, which was indeed a very 
real prospect to most of the villagers, their inherited tendency 
being towards a quaint and simple piety that was as childlike 
as it was sincere. The small congregation to which John 
Walden preached twice every Sunday was composed of as 
honest men and clean-minded women as could be found in all 
England, — men and women with straight notions of honour 
and duty, and warm, if plain, conceptions of love, truth and 
family tenderness. They had their little human failings and 
weaknesses, thanks to Mother Nature, whose children we all 
are, and who sets her various limitations for the best of us, — 
but, taken on the whole, they were peculiarly unspoilt by the 
iconoclastic march of progress ; and ‘ advanced * notions of 
doubt as to a God, and scepticism as to a future state, had 
never clouded their quiet minds. Walden had taken them well 
in hand from the beginning of his ministry, — and being much 
of a poet and dreamer at heart, he had fostered noble ideals 
among them, which he taught in simple yet attractive lan- 
guage, with the happiest results. The moral and mental atti- 
tude of the villagers generally was a philosophic cheerfulness 
and obedience to the will of God, — but this did not include a 
tame submission to tyranny, or a passive acceptance of injury 
inflicted upon them by merely human oppressors. 

ioo 


God’s Good Man 


IOI 


Hence, — though any disturbance of the daily equanimity of 
their agricultural life and pursuits was quite an exceptional 
^circumstance, the news of the 1 layin’ low of the Five Sisters ’ 
was sufficient cause, when once it became generally known, for 
visible signs of trouble. In its gravity and importance it 
almost overtopped the advent of the new mistress of the 
Manor; and when on Tuesday it was whispered that ‘Passon 
Walden 9 had himself been to expostulate with Oliver Leach 
concerning the meditated murder of the famous trees, and that 
his expostulations had been all in vain, clouded brows and 
ominous looks were to be seen at every corner where the men 
halted on their way to the fields, or where the women gathered 
to gossip in the pauses of their domestic labour. Walden him- 
self, pacing impatiently to and fro in his garden, was for once 
more disturbed in his mind than he cared to admit. When he 
had been told early on Monday morning of the imminent de- 
struction awaiting ■‘’he five noble beeches which, in their ven- 
erable and broadly- tn inching beauty, were one of the many 
glories of the woods surrounding Abbot’s Manor, he was in- 
clined to set it down to some capricious command issued by the 
home-coming mistress of the estate; and, in order to satisfy 
himself whether this was, or was not the case, he had done 
what was sorely against his own sense of dignity to do, — he had 
gone at once to interview Oliver Leach personally on the sub- 
ject. But he had found that individual in the worst of all 
possible moods for argument, having been, as he stated , i passed 
over’ by Miss Yancourt. That lady had not, he said, written 
to inform him of her intended return, therefore, — so he argued, 
— it was not his business to be aware of it. 

“Miss Vancourt hasn’t told me anything, and of course I 
don’t know anything,” he said carelessly, standing in his door- 
way and keeping his hat on in the minister’s presence ; “ My 
work is on the land, and when timber has to be felled it’s my 
affair and nobody else’s. I’ve been agent on these estates since 
the Squire’s death, and I don’t want to be taught my duty by 
any man.” 

“ But surely your duty does not compel you to cut down five 
of the finest old trees in England,” said Walden, hotly, — 
“ They have been famous for centuries in this neighbourhood. 
Have you any right to fell them without special orders ? ” 

“ Special orders? ” echoed Leach with a sneer; “ I’ve had no 
4 special order ’ for ten years at least ! My employers trust me 
to do what I think best, and I’ve every right to act accordingly. 
The trees will begin to rot in another eighteen months or so, — • 


102 


God’s Good Man 


just now they’re in good condition and will fetch a fair price. 
You stick to your church. Parson Walden, — you know all about 
that, no doubt! — but don’t come preaching to me about the 
felling of timber. That’s my business, — not yours ! ” 

Walden flushed, and bit his lip. His blood grew warm with 
indignation, and he involuntarily clenched his fist. But he 
suppressed his rising wrath with an effort. 

“ You may as well keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. 
Leach — it will do you no harm ! ” he said quietly ; “ I have no 
wish to interfere with what you conceive to be your particular 
-•ode of duty, but I think that before you destroy what can 
never be replaced, you should consult the owner of the trees, 
Miss Yancourt, especially as her return is fixed for to-morrow.” 

“ As I told you before, I know nothing about her return,” 
replied Leach, obstinately ; “ I am not supposed to know. And 
whether she’s here or away, makes no difference to me. I know 
what’s to be done, and I shall do it.” 

Walden’s eyes flashed. Strive as he would, he could not 
disguise his inward contempt for this petty jack-in-office, — and 
his keen glance was, to the perverse nature of the ill-condi- 
tioned boor he addressed, like the lash of a whip on the back of 
a snarling cur. 

“I know what’s to be done, and I shall do it,” Leach re- 
peated in a louder tone; “And all the sentimental rot ever 
talked in the village about the Five Sisters won’t make me 
change my mind, — no, nor all the sermons on meek and quiet 
spirits neither! That’s my last word, Mr. Walden, and you 
may take it for what it is worth ! ” 

Walden swung round on his heel and went his way without 
replying. Outwardly, he was calm enough, but inwardly he was 
in a white heat of anger. His thoughts dwelt with a passion- 
ate insistence on the grand old trees with their great canopies 
of foliage, where hundreds of happy birds annually made their 
homes, — where, with every recurring Spring, the tender young 
leaves sprouted forth from the aged gnarled boughs, expressing 
the joy of a life that had outlived whole generations of men — 
where, in the long heats of summer broad stretches of shade 
lay dense on the soft grass, offering grateful shelter from the 
noon-day sun to the browsing cattle, — and where with the 
autumn’s breath, the slow and glorious transformation of green 
leaves to gold, with flecks of scarlet between, made a splendour 
of colour against the pale grey-blue sky, such as artists dream 
of and with difficulty realise. All this wealth of God-granted 
natural beauty, — the growth of centuries, — was to perish in a 


God’s Good Man 


103 


single morning! Surely it was a crime! — surely it was a 
wicked and wanton deed, for which there could be no sane 
excuse offered! Sorrowfully, and with bitterness, did Walden 
relate to his gardener, Bainton, the failure of his attempt to 
bring Oliver Leach to reason, — solemnly, and in subdued 
silence did Bainton hear the tale. 

“Well, well, Passon,” he said, when his master had finished; 
“ You doos your best for us, and no man can’t say but what 
you’ve done it true ever since you took up with this ’ere vil- 
lage, — and you’ve tried to save the Five Sisters, and if ’tain’t 
no use, why there’s no more to be said. Josey Letherbarrow 
was for walkin’ up to the Manor an’ seem’ Miss Yancourt her- 
self, as soon as iver she gets within her own door, — but Lord 
love ye, he’d take ’arf a day to jog up there on such feet as he’s 
got left after long wear and tear, an’ there ain’t no liftin’ ’im 
into a cart nohow. Sez he to me : ( I’ll see the little gel wot I 
used to know, and I’ll tell ’er as ’ow the Five Sisters be chalked, 
an’ she’ll listen to me — you see if she don’t ! ’ I was rather 
took with the idee myself, but I sez, sez I : ‘ Let alone, Josey, 
—you be old as Methusaleh, and you can’t get up to the 
Manor nohow ; let Passon try what he can do wi’ Leach,’ — and 
now you’ve been and done your best, and can’t do nothin’, why 
we must give it up altogether.” 

Walden walked up and down, his hands loosely clasped be- 
hind his back, lost in thought. 

“We won’t give it up altogether, Bainton,” he said; “We’ll 
try and find some other way ” 

“There’s goin’ to be another way,” declared Bainton, sig- 
nificantly ; “ There’s trouble brewin’ in the village, an’ m’appen 
when Oliver Leach gets up to the woods to-morrow mornin’ 
he’ll find a few ready to meet ’im ! ” 

Walden stopped abruptly. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ ’Tain’t for me to say ; ” and Bainton pretended to be very 
busy in pulling up one or two plantains from the lawn ; “ But 
I tells ye true, Passon, the Five Sisters ain’t goin’ to be laid 
low without a shindy ! ” 

John’s eyes sparkled. He scented battle, and was not by 
any means displeased. 

“This is Tuesday, isn’t it?” he asked abruptly; “This is 
the day Miss Yancourt has arranged to return ? ” 

“It is so, sir,” replied Bainton; “and it’s believed the 
arrangements ’olds good — for change ’er mind as a woman will. 


104 


God’s Good Man 


’er ’osses an’ groom’s arrived — and a dog as large as they make 
’em, which ’is name is Plato.” 

Walden gave a slight gesture of annoyance. Here was a 
fresh cause of antipathy to the approaching Miss Yancourt. 
No one but a careless woman, devoid of all taste and good 
feeling, would name a dog after the greatest of Greek philos- 
ophers ! 

“Plato’s a good name,” went on Bainton meditatively, un- 
conscious of the view his master was taking of that name in 
his own mind ; “ Pve ’eard it somewheres before, though I 
couldn’t tell just where. And it’s a fine dog. I was up at the 
Manor this mornin’ lookin’ round the grounds, just to see ’ow 
they’d been a-gettin’ on — and really it isn’t so bad considerin’, 
and I was askin’ a question or two of Spruce, and he showed 
me the dog lyin’ on the steps of the Manor, lookin’ like a lion’s 
baby snoozin’ in the sun, and waitin’ as wise as ye like for his 
mistress. He don’t appear at all put out by new faces or new 
grounds — he’s took to the place quite nat’ral.” 

“ You saw Spruce early, then? ” 

“Yes, sir, I see Spruce, and arter ’ollerin’ ’ard at ’im for 
’bout ten minutes, he sez, sez he, as gentle as a child sez he: 
‘Yes, the Five Sisters is a-comin’ down to-morrow mornin’, 
and we’s all to be there a quarter afore six with ropes and 
axes.’ ” 

John started walking up and down again. 

“ When is Miss Yancourt expected? ” he enquired. 

“ At tea-time this artemoon,” replied Bainton. “ The train 
arrives at Biversford at three o’clock, if so he it isn’t behind 
its time, — and if the lady gets a fly from the station, which if 
she ain’t ordered it afore, m’appen she won’t get it, she’ll be 
’ere ’bout four.” 

Instinctively Walden glanced at his watch. It was just two: 
o’clock. Another hour and the antipathetic 4 Squire-ess ’ would 
be actually on her way to the village ! He heaved a short sigh. 
Forebodings of evil infected the air, — impending change, dis- 
turbing and even disastrous to St. Best suggested itself troub- 
lously to his mind. Arguing inwardly with himself, he pres- 
ently began to think that notwithstanding all his attempts to 
live a Christian life, after the manner Christianly, he was 
surely becoming a very selfish and extremely narrow-minded 
man ! He was unreasonably, illogically vexed at the return of 
the heiress of Abbot’s Manor ; and why ? Why, chiefly because 
he would no longer be able to walk at liberty in Abbot’s Manor 
gardens and woods, — because there would be another person- 


God’s Good Man 


105 


ality perhaps more dominant than his own in the little village* 
and because — yes! — because he had a particular aversion to 
women of fashion, such as Miss Vancourt undoubtedly must 
be, to judge from the brief exhibition of her wardrobe which, 
through the guilelessness of Mrs. Spruce, had been displayed 
before his reluctant eyes. 

These objections were after all, so he told himself, really 
rooted in masculine selfishness, — the absorbing selfishness of 
old bachelorhood, which had grown round him like a shell, 
shutting him out altogether from the soft influences of fem- 
inine attraction, — so much so indeed that he had even come to 
look upon his domestic indoor servants as obliging machines 
rather than women, — machines which it was necessary to keep 
well oiled with food and wages, but which could scarcely be 
considered as entering into his actual life more than the lawn- 
mower or the roasting-jack. Yet he was invariably kind to all 
his dependants, — invariably thoughtful of all their needs, — 
nevertheless he maintained a certain aloofness from them, not 
only because he was by nature reserved, but because he judged 
reserve necessary in order to uphold respect. In sickness or 
trouble, no one could be more quietly helpful or consolatory 
than he; and in the company of children he threw off all re- 
straint and was as a child himself in the heartiness and spon- 
taneity of his mirth and good humour, — but with all women, 
save the very aged and matronly, he generally found himself 
at a loss, uncertain what to say to them, and equally uncertain 
as to how far he might accept or believe what they said to him. 
The dark eyes of a sparkling brunette embarrassed him as 
much as the dreamy blue orbs of a lily-like blonde, — they were 
curious dazzlements that got into his way at times, and made 
him doubtful as to whether any positive sincerity ever could or 
ever would lurk behind such bewildering brief flashes of light 
which appeared to shine forth without meaning, and vanish 
again without result. And in various ways, — he now began to 
think, — he must certainly have grown inordinately, outrage- 
ously selfish ! — his irritation at the prospective return of Miss 
Vancourt proved it. He determined to brace himself together 
and put the lurking devil of egotism down. 

“ Put it down ! ” he said inwardly and with sternness, — “ put 
it down — trample it under foot, John, my boy! The lady of 
the Manor is perhaps sent here to try your patience and prove 
the stuff that is in you ! She is no child, — she is twenty-seven 
years of age — a full grown woman, — she will have her ways, 
just as you have yours, — she will probably rub every mental 


God’s Good Man 


106 

and moral hair on the skin of your soul awry, — but that is 
really just what you want, John, — you do indeed! You want 
something more irritating than Sir Morton Pippitt’s senile 
snobberies to keep you clean of an overgrowth or an under- 
growth of fads! Your powers of endurance are about to be 
put to the test, and you must come out strong, John! You 
must not allow yourself to become a querulous old fellow 
because you cannot always do exactly as you like ! ” 

He smiled genially at his own mental scolding of himself, 
and addressing Bainton once more, said : 

“I shall probably write a note to Miss Yancourt this after- 
noon, and send you up with it. I shall tell her all about the 
Five Sisters, and ask her to give orders that the cutting down 
of the trees may be delayed till she has seen them for herself. 
But don’t say anything about this in the village,” here he 
paused a moment, and then spoke with greater emphasis — “ I 
don’t want to interfere with anything anybody else may have 
on hand. Do you understand? We must save the old beeches 
somehow. I will do my best, but I may fail; Miss Yancourt 
may not read my letter, or if she does, she may not be disposed 
to attend to it; it is best that all ways and means should be 
tried, ” 

He broke off, — but his eyes met Bainton’s in a mutual flash 
of understanding. 

“You’re a straight man, Passon, and no mistake,” observed 
Bainton with a slow smile; “ No beatin’ about the bush in the 
likes o’ you ! Lord, Lord ! What* a mussy we ain’t saddled 
with a poor snuffling, addle-pated, whimperin’ man o’ God like 
we ’ad afore you come ’ere — what found all ’is dooty an’ pleas- 
ure in dinin’ with Sir Morton Pippitt up at the ’All! And 
when there was a man died, or a baby born, or some other sich 
like calamity in the village, he worn’t never to ’and to ’elp, — 
but he would give a look in when it was all over, and then he 
sez, sez he : * I’m sorry, my man, I wasn’t ’ere to comfort ye, 

but I was up at the ’All.’ And he did roll it round and round 
in his mouth like as ’twas a lump o’ butter and ’oney — ‘ up at 
the ’All ’ ! Hor-hor-lior ! It must a’ tasted sweet to ’im as we 
used to say, — and takin’ into consideration that Sir Morton 
was a bone-melter by profession, we used to throw up the 
proverb ‘ the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat ’ — not that 
it had any bearin’ on the matter, but a good sayin’s a good 
thing, and a proverb fits into a fancy sometimes better’n a foot 
into a shoe. But you ain’t a snuffler, Passon ! — and you ain’t 
never been up at the ’All, nor wouldn’t go if you was axed to, 


God’s Good Man 107 

and that’s one of the many things what makes you a gineral 
favourite, — it do reely now ! ” 

Walden smiled, but forbore to continue conversation on this 
somewhat personal theme. He retired into his own study, 
there to concoct the stiffest, most clerical, and most formal 
note to Miss Vancourt that he could possibly devise. He had 
the very greatest reluctance to attempt such a task, and sat 
with a sheet of notepaper before him for some time, staring at 
it without formulating any commencement. Then he began: 
“ The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Miss 
Vancourt, and begs to inform her ” 

Ho, that would never do ! ‘ Begs to inform her ’ sounded 

almost threatening. The Rev. John Walden might ‘beg to 
inform her ’ that she had no business to wear pink shoes with 
high heels, for example. He destroyed one half sheet of paper, 
put the other half economically aside to serve as a stray leaflet 
for ‘ church memoranda,’ and commenced in a different strain. 

“ Hear Madam,” 

“ Hear Madam ! ” He looked at the two words in some 
annoyance. They were very ugly. Addressed to a person who 
wore pink shoes, they seemed singularly abrupt. And if Miss 
V ancourt should chance to resemble in the least her ancestress, 
Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, they were wholly unsuit- 
able. A creditor might write ‘ Hear Madam ’ to a customer in 
application for an outstanding bill, — but to Mary Elia Adelgisa 
one would surely begin, — Ah! — i\ow how would one begin? 
He paused, biting the end of his penholder. Another half 
sheet of notepaper was wasted, and equally another half sheet 
devoted to 1 church memoranda.’ Then he began : 

“Hear Miss Vancourt,” 

At this, he threw down his pen altogether. Too familiar! 
By all the gods of Greece, whom he had almost believed in even 
while studying Hivinity at Oxford, a great deal too familiar ! 

“ It is just as if I knew her ! ” he said to himself in vexation. 
“And I don’t know her! And what’s more, I don’t want to 
know her! If it were not for this business of the Five Sisters, 
I wouldn’t go near her. Positively I wouldn’t ! ” 

A mellow chime from the old eight-day clock in the outer 
hall struck on the silence. Three o’clock ! The train by which 
Miss Vancourt would arrive, was timed to reach Riversford 
station at three, — if it was not late, which it generally was. 
Nebbie, who had been snoozing peacefully near the study win- 
dow in a patch of sunlight, suddenly rose, shook himself, and 


io8 God’s Good Man 


trotted out on to the lawn, sniffing the air with ears and tail 
erect. Walden watched him abstractedly. 

“ Perhaps he scents a future enemy in Miss V ancourt’s dog, 
Plato ! ” And this whimsical idea made him smile. “ He is 
quite intelligent enough. He is certainly more intelligent than 
I am this afternoon, for I cannot write even a commonplace 
ordinary note to a commonplace ordinary woman ! ” Here a 
sly brain-devil whispered that Miss Vancourt might possibly 
be neither cctnmonplace nor ordinary, — but he put the sug- 
gestion aside with a ‘ Get thee behind me, Satan ’ inflexibility. 
“ The fact is, I had better not write to her at all. I’ll send 
Bainton with a verbal message; he is sure to give a quaint 
and pleasant turn to it, — he knew her father, and I didn’t ; — it 
will be much better to send Bainton.” 

Having made this resolve, his brow cleared, and he was 
more satisfied. Tearing up the last half sheet of wasted note- 
paper he had spoilt in futile attempts to address the lady of the 
Manor, he laughed at his failures. 

“ Even if it were etiquette to use the old Boman form of 
correspondence, which some people think ought to be revived, 
it wouldn’t do in this case,” he said. “ Imagine it! ‘John 
Walden to Maryllia Vancourt, — Greeting! ’ How unutterably, 
how stupendously ridiculous it would look ! ” 

He shut all his writing materials in his desk, and following 
Nebbie out to the lawn, seated himself with a volume of Owen 
Meredith in his hand. He was soon absorbed. Yet every now 
and again his thoughts strayed to the Eive Sisters, and with 
persistent fidelity of detail his mind’s eye showed him the 
grassy knoll so soft to the tread, where the doomed trees stood 
proudly and gracefully, clad just at this season all in a glorious 
panoply of young green, — where, as the poet whose tender word 
melodies he was reading might have said of the surroundings : 

“ For moisture of sweet showers, 

All the grass is thick with flowers.” 

“Yes, I shall send Bainton up to the Manor with a civil 
message,” he mused — “and he can — and certainly will — add 
anything else to it he likes. Of course the lady may be 
offended, — some women take offence at anything — but I don’t 
much care if she is. My conscience will not reproach me for 
having warned her of the impending destruction of one of the 
moet picturesque portions of her property. But personally, I 
■hall not write to her, nor will I go to see her. I shall have’ to 


God’s Good Man 


109 


pay a formal call, of course, in a week or two, — but I need not 
go inside the Manor for that. To leave my card, as minister 
of Jthe parish, will be quite sufficient.” 

He turned again to the volume in his hand. His eyes fell 
casually on a verse in the poem of * Resurrection 9 : 

" The world is filled with folly and sin ; 

And Love must cling where it can, I say, — 

For Beauty is easy enough to win. 

But one isn’t loved every day.” 

He sighed involuntarily. Then to banish an unacknowledged 
regret, he began to criticise his author. 

“ If the world and the ambitions of diplomatic service had 
not stepped in between Lord Lytton and his muse, he would 
have been a fine poet,” he said half aloud ; — “ A pity he was 
not born obscurely and in poverty — he would have been wholly 
great, instead of as now, merely greatly gifted. He missed 
his true vocation. So many of us do likewise. I often wonder 
whether I have missed mine ? ” 

But this idea brooked no consideration. He knew he had 
not mistaken his calling. He was the very man for it. Many 
of his ( cloth 9 might have taken a lesson from him in the whole 
art of unselfish ministration to the needs of others. But with 
all his high spiritual aim, he was essentially human, and pleas- 
antly conscious of his own failings and obstinacies. He did 
not hold himself as above the weaker brethren, but as one with 
them, and of them. And through the steady maintenance of 
this mental attitude, he found himself able to participate in 
ordinary emotions, ordinary interests and ordinary lives with 
more than the usual sympathy displayed by the ministers of 
small and outlying parishes in the concerns of the people com- 
mitted to their charge. It is not too much to say that though 
he was in himself distinctly reserved and apart from the aver- 
age majority of men, the quiet exercise of his influence over 
the village of St. Rest had resulted in so attracting and fasten- 
ing the fibres of love and confidence in all the hearts about him 
to his own, that anything of serious harm occurring to himself; 
would have been considered in the light of real fatality and 
ruin to the whole community. When a clergyman can succeed 
in establishing such complete trust and sympathy between him- 
self and his parishioners, there can be no question of his fit- 
ness for the high vocation to which he has been ordained. 
When, on the contrary, one finds a village or town where the 


no 


God's Good Man 


inhabitants are split np into small and quarrelsome sects, and 
are more or less in a state of objective ferment against the 
minister wbo should be their ruling head, the blame is presum- 
ably more with the minister than with those who dispute his 
teaching, inasmuch as he must have fallen far below, the ex- 
pected standard in some way or other, to have thus incurred 
general animosity. 

“ If all fails,” mused Walden presently, his thoughts again 
reverting to the Five Sisters’ question , — u If Bainton does his 
errand awkwardly, — if the lady will not see him,— if any one 
of the thousand things do happen that are quite likely to hap- 
pen, and so spoil all chance of interceding with Miss V ancourt 
to spare the trees, — why then I will go myself to-morrow morn- 
ing to the scene of intended massacre before six o’clock. I 
will be there before an axe is lifted! And if Bainton meant 
anything at all by his hint, others will be there too ! Yes ! — I 
shall go, — in fact it will be my duty to go in case of a row.” 

A smile showed itself under his silver-brown moustache. 
The idea of a row seemed not altogether unpleasant to him. 
He stooped and patted his dog playfully. 

“ Nebuchadnezzar ! ” he said, with mock solemnity ; whereat 
Nebbie, lying at his feet, opened one eye, blinked it lazily and 
wagged his tail — ■“ Nebuchadnezzar, I think our presence will 
be needed to-morrow morning at an early hour, in attendance 
on the Five Sisters! Ho you hear me, Nebuchadnezzar?” 
Again Nebbie blinked. a Good ! That wink expresses under- 
standing. We shall have to be there, in case of a row.” 

Nebbie yawned, stretched out his paws, and closed both eyes 
in peaceful slumber. It was a beautiful afternoon ; — c suf- 
ficient for the day was the evil thereof ’ according to Nebbie. 
The Reverend John turned over a few more pages of Owen 
Meredith, and presently came to the conclusion that he would 
go punting. The decision was no sooner arrived at than he 
prepared to carry it out. Nebbie awoke with a start from his 
doze to see his master on the move, and quickly trotted after 
him across the lawn to the river. Here, the sole occupant of 
the shining stream was a maternal swan, white as a cloud on 
the summit of Mont Blanc, floating in stately ease up and 
down the water, carrying her young brood of cygnets on her 
back, under the snowy curve of her arching wings. Walden 
unchained the punt and sprang into it, — Nebbie dutifully 
following, — and then divested himself of his coat. He was just 
about to take the punting pole in hand, when Bainton’s figure 
suddenly emerged from the shrubbery. 


God’s Good Man 


in 


“ Off on the wild wave, Passon, are ye ? ” he observed,— 
“ Well, it’s a fine day for it! M’appen you ain’t seen the 
corpses of four rats anywhere around? No? Then I ’spect 
their lovin’ relations must ha’ been an’ ate ’em up, which may 
be their pertikler way of doin’ funerals. I nabbed ’em all last 
night' in new traps of my own invention. Mebbe the lilies will 
be all the better for their loss. I’ll be catchin’ some more this 
evenin’. Lord; Passon, if you was to ’old out offers of a 
shillin’ a head, the rats ’ud be gone in no time, — an’ the lilies 
too!” 

Walden absorbed in getting his punt out, only smiled and 
nodded acquiescingly. 

“ The train must ha’ been poonctual,” went on Bainton, 
staring stolidly at the shining water. “ Amazin’ poonctual for 
once in its life. Por a one ’oss fly, goin’ at a one ’oss fly pace, 
’as jes’ passed through the village, and is jiggitin’ up to the 
Manor this very minute. I s’pose Miss Yancourt’s inside it.” 

Walden paused, — punt-pole in hand. 

“ Yes, I suppose she is,” he rejoined. “ Come to me at six 
o’clock, Bainton. I shall want you.” 

“ Very good, sir ! ” 

The pole splashed in the water, — the punt shot out into the 
clear stream, — Nebbie gave two short barks, as was his custom 
when he found himself being helplessly borne away from dry 
land, — and in a few seconds Walden had disappeared round 
one of the bends of the river. Bainton stood ruminating for 
a minute. 

“Jest a one ’oss fly, goin’ at a one ’oss fly pace!” he re- 
peated, slowly; — “It’s a cheap way of cornin’ ’ome to one’s 
father’s ’Alls — jest in a one ’oss fly ! She might ha’ ordered a 
kerridge an’ pair by telegram, an’ dashed it up in fine style, 
but a one ’oss fly! It do take the edge off a ’ome-comin’ !— 
it do reely now.” 

And with a kind of short grunt at the vanity and disappoint- 
ment of human expectations, he went his way to the kitchen 
garden, there to ‘chew the cud of sweet and bitter memory’ 
over the asparagus beds, which were in a highly promising 
condition. 


VIII 


*tihe one-horse fly, going at a one-horse fly pace, had made 

its way with comfortable jaunting slowness from 
Riversford to St. Rest, its stout, heavy-faced driver being 
altogether unconscious that his fare was no less a personage 
than Miss Vancourt, the lady of the Manor. When a small, 
girlish person, clad in a plain, close-fitting garb of navy-blue 
serge, and wearing a simple yet coquettish dark straw hat to 
match, accosted him at the Riversford railway station with a 
brief, ‘ Cab, please/ and sprang into his vehicle, he was a 
trifle sulky at being engaged in such a haphazard fashion by 
an apparently insignificant young female who had no luggage, 
not so much as a handbag. 

“ Wheer be you a-goin’ ? 99 he demanded, turning his bull 
neck slowly round — “ I baint pertikler for a far journey.” 

“ Aren’t you ? ” and the young lady smiled. “ You must 
drive me to St. Rest, — Abbot’s Manor, please ! ” 

The heavy-faced driver paused, considering. Should he 
perform the journey, or should he not? Perhaps it would be 
wisest to undertake the job, — there was the c Mother Huff ’ at 
the end of the journey, and Roger Buggins was a friend of his. 
Yes, — he would take the risk of conveying the humbly-clad 
female up to the Manor; he had heard rumours that the old 
place was once again to be inhabited, and that the mistress of 
it was daily expected ; — this person in the blue serge was prob- 
ably one of her messengers or retainers. 

“ My fare’s ten shillings,” he observed, still peering round 
distrustfully ; “ It’p a good seven mile up hill and down dale.” 

“ All right ! ” responded the young woman, cheerfully ; 
“ You shall have ten shillings. Only please begin to go, won’t 
you ? ” 

This request was accompanied by an arch smile, and a flash 
of blue eyes from under the dark straw hat brim. Whereat 
the cumbrous Jehu was faintly moved to a responsive grin. 

“ She ain’t bad-looking, neither ! ” he muttered to himself, — • 
nnd he was in a somewhat better humour when at last he con- 
descended to start. His vehicle was a closed one, and though 

112 


God’s Good Man 


1 13 

he fully expected his passenger would put her head out of the 
rvindow, when the horse was labouring up-hill, and entreat him 
to go faster, — which habit he had found by experience was cus- 
tomary to woman in a one-horse fly, — nothing of the kind hap- 
pened on this occasion. The person in the blue serge was evi- 
dently both patient and undemonstrative. Whether the horse 
crawled or slouched, or trotted, — whether the fly dragged, or 
bumped, or jolted, she made no sign. When St. Rest was 
reached at last, and the driver whipped his steed into a sem- 
blance of spirit, and drove through the little village with a 
clatter, two or three people came to the doors of their cottages 
and looked at the vehicle scrutinisingly, wondering whether 
its occupant was, or was not Miss Vancourt. But a meaning 
wink from the sage on the box intimated that they need not 
trouble themselves, — the * fare ’ was no one of the least impor- 
tance. 

Presently, the fine old armorial gates of the drive which led 
up to Abbot’s Manor were reached, — they were set wide open, 
this having been done according to Mrs. Spruce’s orders. A 
woman at the lodge came hastily out, but the cab had passed 
her before she had time to see who was in it. Up through the 
grand avenue of stately oaks and broad-branching elms, whose 
boughs, rich with the budding green, swayed in the light wind 
with a soft rustling sound as of sweeping silks on velvet, the 
unostentatious vehicle jogged slowly, — it was a steady ascent 
all the way, and the driver was duly considerate of his ani- 
mal’s capabilities. At last came the turn in the long approach, 
which showed the whole width of the Manor, with its ancient 
rose-brick frontage and glorious oaken gables shining in the 
warm afternoon sunlight, — the old Tudor courtyard spreading 
before it, its grey walls and paving stones half hidden in a wil- 
derness of spring blossom. Here, too, the gates were open, 
and the one-horse fly made its lumbering and awkward en- 
trance within, drawing up with a jerk at the carved portico. 
The young person in blue serge jumped out, purse in hand. 

“ Ten shillings, I think ? ” she said ; but before the driver 
could answer her, the great iron-clamped door of the Manor 
swung open, and a respectable retainer in black stood on the 
threshold. 

“ Oh, will you pay the driver, please ? ” said the young lady, 
addressing this functionary ; “ He says his fare is ten shillings. 
I daresay he would like an extra five shillings for himself as 
well,” and she smiled— “ Here it is ! ” 

She handed the money to the personage in black, who was 


God’s Good Man 


114 

no other than the former butler to Sir Morton Pippitt, now 
at the Manor on temp’ry service/ and who in turn presented 
it with an official stateliness to the startled fly-man, who was 
just waking up to the fact that his fare, whom he had consid- 
ered as a person of no account whatever, was the actual mis- 
tress of the Manor. 

“ Drive out to the left of the court,” said the butler impera- 
tively ; “ Reverse way to which you entered.” 

The submissive Jehu prepared to obey. The young person 
in blue serge smiled up at him. 

“ Good afternoon ! ” said she. 

“ Same to you, mum ! ” he replied, touching his cap ; “ And 
thank ye kindly ! ” 

Whereat, his stock of eloquence being exhausted, he whipped 
up his steed to a gallop and departed in haste for the * Mother 
Huff/ full of eagerness to relate the news of Miss Vancourt’s 
arrival, further embellished by the fact that he had himself 
driven her up from the station , 6 all unbeknown like/ 

Miss Vancourt herself, meanwhile, stepped into her ancestral 
halls, and stood for a moment, silent, looking round her with 
a wistful, almost pathetic earnestness. 

“ Tea is served in the morning-room, Madam,” said the 
butler respectfully, all the time wondering whether this slight, 
childlike-looking creature was really Miss Vancourt, or some 
young friend of hers sent as an advance herald of her arrival. 
“ Mrs. Spruce thought you would find it comfortable there.” 

“ Mrs. Spruce ! ” exclaimed the girl, eagerly ; “ Where is 
she?” 

“ Here, ma’am — here, my lady,” said a quavering voice — 
and Mrs. Spruce, presenting quite a comely and maternal 
aspect in her best black silk gown, and old-fashioned cap, with 
lace lappets, such as the late Squire had always insisted on her 
wearing, came forward curtseying nervously. 

“ I hope, ma’am, you’ve had a pleasant journey ” 

But her carefully prepared sentence was cut short by a pair 
of arms being flung suddenly round her, and a fresh face 
pressed against her own. 

“Dear Mrs. Spruce! I am so glad to see you! You knew 
me when I was quite a little thing, didn’t you? And you 
knew my father, too! You were very fond of my father, 
weren’t you? I am sure you were! You must try to be fond 
of me now ! ” 

Never, as Mrs. Spruce was afterwards wont to declare, had 
she been so ‘ took back/ as by the unaffected spontaneity and 


God’s Good Man 


ii5 

sweetness of this greeting on the part of the new mistress, 
whose advent she had so greatly feared. She went, to quote 
her own words, i all of a fluster like, and near busted out cryin’. 
It was like a dear lovin’ little child cornin’ ’ome, and made me 
feel that queer you might have knocked me down with a soap- 
bubble ! ’ 

Whatever the worthy woman’s feelings were, and however 
much the respectable butler, whose name was Primmins, might 
have been astonished in his own stately mind at Miss Van- 
court’s greeting of her father’s old servant. Miss V ancourt her- 
self was quite unconscious of any loss of dignity on her own 
part. 

“ I am so glad ! ” she repeated ; “ It’s like finding a friend at 
home to find you. Spruce! I had quite forgotten what you 
looked like, but I begin to remember now — you were always 
nice and kind, and you always managed so well, didn’t you? 
Yes, I’m sure you did ! The man said tea was in the morning- 
room. You come and pour it out for me, like a dear old 
thing! I’m going to live alone in my own home now for 
always, — for always!” she repeated, emphatically; “Nobody 
shall ever take me away from it again ! ” 

She linked her arm confidingly in that of Mrs. Spruce, who 
for once was too much astonished to speak, — Miss Vancourt 
was so entirely different to the chill and reserved personage her 
imagination had depicted, that she was quite at a loss how to 
look or what to say. 

“ Is this the way ? ” asked Maryllia, stepping lightly past the 
stuffed knight in armour; “Yes? I thought it was! I begin 
to remember everything now! Oh, how I wish I had never 
gone away from this dear old home ! ” 

She entered the morning-room, guiding Mrs. Spruce, rather 
than being guided by her, — for as that worthy woman averred 
to Primmins at supper that self-same night : “ I was so all in 
a tremble and puspration with ’er ’oldin’ on to my arm and 
takin’ me round, that I was like the man in the Testymen 
what had dumb devils, — and scarcely knew what ground my 
feet was a-fallin’ on ! ” The cheerful air of welcome which 
pervaded this charming, sunny apartment, with its lattice win- 
dows fronting the wide stretch of velvety lawn, terrace and 
park-land, delighted Maryllia, and she loosened her hold on 
Mrs. Spruce’s arm with a little cry of pleasure, as a huge mag-| 
nificently coated Newfoundland dog rose from his recumbent 
position near the window, and came to greet her with slow andj 
expansive waggings of his great plumy tail. 


n6 


God’s Good Man 


“ Plato, my beauty ! ” she exclaimed ; “ How do you like 
Abbot’s Manor, boy? Eh? Quite at home, aren’t you! 
Good dog ! Isn’t he a king of dogs ? ” And she turned her 
smiling face on Mrs. Spruce. “ A real king ! I bought him 
because he was so big! Weren’t you frightened when you saw 
such a monster? — and didn’t you think he would bite every- 
body on the least provocation? But he wouldn’t, you know! 
He’s a perfect darling — as gentle as a lamb! He would kill 
anyone that wanted to hurt me — oh, yes of course! — that’s 
why I love him ! ” 

And she patted the enormous creature’s broad head tenderly. 

“ He’s my only true friend ! ” she continued ; “ Money 
wouldn’t buy his fidelity ! ” Here, glancing at Mrs. Spruce, 
she laughed merrily. “Dear Mrs. Spruce! You do look so 
uncomfortable! — so — so warm! It is warm, isn’t it? Make 
me some tea ! — tea cools one, they say, though it’s hot to drink 
at first. We’ll talk afterwards ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce, with inaudible murmurings, hastened to the 
tea-tray, and tried to compose her agitated nerves by bringing 
her attention to bear on the silver tea-kettle which Primmins 
had just brought in, and in which the water was beginning to 
bubble, in obedience to the newly-kindled flame of the spirit- 
lamp beneath. 

Maryllia, meanwhile, stepped out on the grass terrace in 
front of the window, with the dog Plato at her side, and looked 
long and earnestly at the fair stretch of woodland scenery be- 
fore her. While she thus stood absorbed, Mrs. Spruce stole 
covert glances at her with increased wonder and bewilderment. 
She looked much younger than her twenty-seven years, — her 
childlike figure and face portrayed her as about eighteen, not 
more. She stood rather under than over the medium height 
of woman, — yet she gave the impression of being taller than 
she actually was, owing to the graceful curve of her arched 
neck, which rose from her shoulders with a daintily-proud 
poise, marking her demeanour as exceptional and altogether 
different to that of ordinary women. Her back being turned 
tc Mrs. Spruce for the moment, that sagacious dame decided 
that she was ‘ real stately, for all that she was small,’ and also 
noted hat her hair, coiled loosely in a thick knot, which 
pushed itself with rebellious fulness beyond the close-fitting 
edge of the dark straw hat she wore, was of a warm auburn 
gold, rippling here and there into shades of darker brown. 
Suddenly, with a decided movement, she turned from the ter- 
race and re-entered the morning-room. 


God’s Good Man 


1 17 


“ Tea ready ? 99 she asked. 

“ Yes, ma’am ! — yes, miss — my lady — it’s just made— perhaps 
it’s best to let it draw a bit •” 

“ I don’t like it strong ! ” said Maryllia, sitting down, and 
leisurely taking off her hat ; “ And you mustn’t call me ‘ my 
lady.’ I’m not the daughter of an earl, or the wife of a knight. 
If I were Scotch, I might say 1 I’m McIntosh of McIntosh’; 
or some other Mac of Mac, — but being English, I’m Vancourt 
of Vancourt! And you must call me ‘ Miss,’ till I become 
1 Ma’am.’ I don’t want to bear any unnecessary dignities be- 
fore my time! In fact, I think you’d better call me Miss 
Maryllia, as you used to do when my father was alive.” 

“ Very well, ma’am — miss — Miss Maryllia,” faltered Mrs. 
Spruce, fumbling distractedly with the tea-things, and putting 
cream and sugar recklessly into three or four cups without 
thinking ; “ There ! Really, I don’t know what I am a-doin’ of 
— do you like cream and sugar, my dear? — beggin’ your par- 
ding — Miss Maryllia ? ” 

“ Yes, I like cream and sugar both,” replied the young lady 
with a mirthful gleam in her eyes, as she noted the old house- 
keeper’s confusion ; “ But don’t spoil the tea with either ! If 
you put too much cream, you will make the tea cold, — if you 
put too much sugar, you will make it syrupy, — you must arrive 
at the juste milieu in a cup of tea ! I am very particular ! ” 

Poor Mrs. Spruce grew warmer and redder in the face than 
ever. What was the e juste milieu *f Often and often after- 
wards did she puzzle over that remarkable phrase. 

“ I think,” continued Maryllia, with a dimpling smile, “ if 
you put one lump of sugar in the cup and two brimming tea- 
spoonfuls of cream, it will be exactly right ! ” 

Gladly, and with relief, Mrs. Spruce obeyed these explicit 
instructions, and handed her new mistress the desired refresh- 
ment with assiduous and respectful care. 

“ You are a dear! ” said Maryllia, lazily taking the cup from 
her hand; “Just the kindest and nicest of persons! And 
good-tempered? I am sure you are good-tempered, aren’t 
you ? ” 

“Pretty well so, Miss,” responded Mrs. Spruce, now gaining 
courage to look at the fair smiling face opposite her own, more 
squarely and openly; “Leastways, I’ve been told I keeps my 
’ead under any amount of kitchen jawin’. Eor, as you may 
believe me, in a kitchen where there’s men as well as women, 
an’ a servants’ ’All leadin’ straight through from the kitchen, 
jawin’ there is and jawin’ there must be, and such bein’ the 


n8 


God’s Good Man 


Lord’s will, we must put up with it. But it wants a ’ead to 
keep things straight, and I generally arranges pretty well, 
though mi not deny but I’m a bit flustered to-day, — howsom- 
ever, it will soon be all right, and anythink that’s wrong, Miss, 

if you will be so good as to tell me ” 

“ I will ! ” said Maryllia, sweetly ; and she leaned back in her 
chair, whimsically surveying the garrulous old dame with eyes 
which Mrs. Spruce then and there discovered to be 4 the most 
beautiful blue eyes ever seen,’ — 44 I will tell you all I do like, 
and all I don’t like. I’m sure we shall get on well together. 
The tea is perfect, — and this room is exquisite. In fact, every- 
thing is delightful, and I’m so happy to be in my own home 
once more ! I wish I had never left it ! ” 

Her eyes darkened suddenly, and she sighed. Mrs. Spruce 
watched her in submissive silence, realising as she gazed that 
Miss Maryllia was 4 a real beauty and no mistake.’ Why and 
how she came to that conclusion, she could not very well have 
explained. Her ideas of feminine loveliness were somewhat 
hazy and restricted. She privately considered her own girl, 
Kitty, 4 the handsomest lass in all the country-side ’ and she 
had been known to bitterly depreciate what she called 4 the 
pink and white dolly-face ’ of Susie Prescott, the acknowledged 
young belle of the village. But there was an indefinable air 
of charm about her new lady which was quite foreign to all her 
experience, — a bewildering grace and ease of manner arising 
from high education and social cultivation, that confused her 
and robbed her of all her usual self-sufficiency; and for once in 
her life she checked her customary volubility and decided that 
it was perhaps best to say as little as possible till she saw ex- 
actly how things w^ere going to turn out. Miss Maryllia was 
very kind, — but who could tell whether she was not also 
capricious? There was something slightly quizzical as well as 
sweet in her smile, — something subtle — something almost mys- 
terious. She had greeted her father’s old servant as affection- 
ately as a child, — but her enthusiasm might be only temporary. 
So Mrs. Spruce vaguely reflected as she stood with her hands 
folded on her apron, waiting for the next word. That next 
word came with a startling suddenness. 

44 Oh, you wicked Spruce ! How could you ! 99 

And Maryllia, springing up from her chair, made a bound 
to the opposite corner of the room, where there was a tall vase 
filled with peacocks’ feathers. Gathering all these in her 
hand, she flourished them dramatically in the old housekeeper’s 
face. 


God’s Good Man 


119 

“ The most unlucky things in the world ! ” she exclaimed ; 
* Peacocks’ feathers! How could you allow them to be in 
this room on the very day of my return ! It’s dreadful ! — quite 
dreadful! — you know it is! Nothing is quite so awful as a 
peacock’s feather ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce stared, gasped and blinked, — her hand involun- 
tarily wandered to her side in search for convenient i spasms.’ 

“ They’ve always been ’ere, Miss,” she stammered ; “ I ’adn’t 
no idee as ’ow you wouldn’t like them, though to tell the truth, 
I ’ave ’eard somethin’ about their bein’ onlucky ” 

“ Unlucky ! I should think so ! ” replied Maryllia, holding 
the objectionable plumes as far away from herself as possible, — 
“ No wonder we’ve been unfortunate, if these feathers were 
always in the old house! No wonder everything went wrong! 
I must break the spell at once and for ever. Are there more 
of these horrible ‘ witch-eyes 9 in any of the rooms ? ” 

Poor Mrs. Spruce made a great effort to cudgel her memory. 
She was affected by ‘ a palpitation,’ as she expressed it. There 
was her newly-arrived mistress confronting her with the 
authoritative air of a young empress, holding the bunch of glit- 
tering peacocks’ plumes aloft, like a rod uplifted for summary 
chastisement, and asking her to instantly remember whether 
there were any more 1 horrible witch -eyes ’ about. Mrs. 
Spruce had never before heard such a term applied to the tail- 
sheddings of the imperial fowl, — but she never forgot it, and 
never afterwards saw a peacock’s feather without a qualm. 

“ I couldn’t say, Miss ; I’m not sure — ” she answered flutter- 
ingly; “But I’ll have every ’ole and corner searched to-mor- 
row ” 

“No, to-night!” said Maryllia, with determination; “I will 
not sleep in the house if one peacock’s feather remains in it! 
There ! ” Her brows were bent tragically ; — in another moment 
she laughed ; “ Take them away ! ” she continued, picking up 
Mrs. Spruce’s apron at the comers and huddling all the glitter- 
ing plumage into its capacious folds; “Take them all away! 
An d go right through the house, and collect every remaining 
feather you can find — and then — and then ” 

Here she paused dubiously. “ You mustn’t burn them, you 
know ! That would be unluckier still ! ” 

“Lor! Would it now, Miss? I never should ’ave thought 
it! ” murmured Mrs. Spruce plaintively, grasping her apronful 
of ‘horrible witch-eyes’; “What on earth shall I do with 
them?” 

Maryllia considered. Very pretty she looked at that moment. 


120 


God’s Good Man 


with one small finger placed meditatively on her lips, which 
were curved close like a folded rosebud. “ You must either 
bury them, or drown them ! ” she said at last, with the gravest 
decision ; “ If you drown them, you must tie them to a stone, so 
that they will not float. If you bury them, you must dig ten 
feet deep! You must really! If you don’t, they will all come 
up again, and the eyes will be all over the place, haunting 
you ! ” Here she broke into the merriest little laugh possible. 
“ Poor Spruce ! You do look so miserable! See here — I’ll tell 
you what to do ! Pack them all in a box, and I will send them 
to my aunt Emily! She loves them! She likes to see them 
stuck all over the drawing-room. They’re never unlucky t% 
her. She has a fellow-feeling for peacocks ; there is. a sort of 
affinity between herself and them ! Pack up every feather yoi. 
can find, Spruce! The box must go to-night by parcel’s post 
Address to Mrs. Fred Vancourt, at the Langham Hotel. She’*i 
staying there just now. Will you be sure to send them off 
to-night ? ” 

She held up her little white hand entreatingly, and her blue 
eyes wonderfully sweet and childlike, yet grave and passionate, 
<ooked straight into the elder woman’s wrinkled apple face. 

“ When she looked at me like that, I’d a gone barefoot to 
kingdom-come for her ! ” Mrs. Spruce afterwards declared to 
some of her village intimates— “ And as for the peacocks’ 
feathers, I’d a scrubbed though the ’ole ’ouse from top to bot- 
tom afore I’d a let one be in it ! ” 

To Maryllia she said : 

“ You may take my word for it, Miss ! They’ll all go out 
of the ’ouse ’fore seven o’clock. I’ll send them myself to the 
post.” 

“ Thank you, so much ! ” said Maryllia, with a comical little 
sigh of relief. “ And now. Spruce, I will go to my bedroom 
and lie down for an hour. I’m just a little tired. Have you 
managed to get a maid for me ? ” 

“ Well, Miss, there’s jest a gel — she don’t know any think 
much, but she’s ’andy and willin’ and ’umble, and quick with 
her needle, and tidy at foldin’, and got a good character. 
She’s the best I could do, Miss. Her name is Nancy Pyrle — • 
I’ll send her to you directly.” 

“Yes, do!” answered Miss Vancourt, with a little yawn; 
“ And show me to my rooms ; — you prepared the ones I told 
you — my mother’s rooms ? ” 

“Yes, Miss,” answered Mrs. Spruce in subdued accents; 
“ I’ve made them all fresh and sweet and clean ; but of course 


God’s Good Man 


121 


the furniture is left jest as it was when the Squire locked ’em 
all up after he lost his lady ” 

Maryllia said nothing, but followed the housekeeper upstair^ 
the great dog Plato in attendance on her steps. On reaching 
the bedroom, hung with faded rose silk hangings, and fur- 
nished with sixteenth century oak, she looked at everything 
with a curious wistfulness and reverence. Approaching the 
dressing-table, she glanced at her own reflection in the mirror ; 
but fair as the reflection was that glanced back at her, she gave 
it no smile. She was serious and absorbed, and her eyes were 
clouded with a sudden mist of tears. Mrs. Spruce took the 
opportunity to slip away with her collection of peacocks’ 
feathers, and descended in haste to the kitchen, where for 
some time the various orders she issued caused much domestic 
perturbation, and fully expressed the chaotic condition of her 
own mind. The maid, Nancy Pyrle, was hustled oft' to ‘wait 
on Miss Vancourt upstairs, and don’t be clumsy with your 
’ands, whatever you do ! ’ — Primmins, the butler, was sent to 
remove the tea-things from the morning-room, — at which 
command he turned round somewhat indignantly, asking ‘ who 
are you a-orderin’ of ; don’t you think I know my business ? ’ 
— Spruce himself, unhappily coming by chance to the kitchen 
door to ask if it was really true that Miss Vancourt had 
arrived, was shrilly told to ‘go along and mind his own 
business,’ — and so it happened that when Bainton appeared, 
charged with the Reverend John Walden’s message concerning 
the Five Sisters, he might as well have tried to obtain an 
unprepared audience with the King, as to see or speak with 
the lady of the Manor. Miss Vancourt had arrived — oh yes, 
she had certainly arrived, Mrs. Spruce told him, with much 
heat and energy; but she was tired and was lying down, and 
certainly could not be asked to see anyone, no matter what 
the business was. And to make things more emphatic, at the 
very time that Bainton was urging his cause, and Mrs. Spruce 
was firmly rejecting it, Nancy Pyrle came down from attend- 
ance on her mistress and said that Miss V ancourt was going to 
sleep a little, and she did not wish to be disturbed till she 
rang her bell. 

“Oh, and she’s beautiful!” said Nancy, drawing a long 
breath, — “ and so very kind ! She showed me how to do all 
she wanted — and was that patient and gentle! She says I’ll 
make quite a good maid after a bit ! ” 

“ Well, I hope to the Lord you will ! ” said Mrs. Spruce 
with a sniff ; “ For it’s a chance in a ’undred, cornin’ straight 


122 


God’s Good Man 


out of the village to a first situation with a lady like Miss 
Vaneourt. And I ’ope you’ll profit by it! And if you ’adn’t 
taken the prize for needlework in the school, you wouldn’t 
’ave ’ad it, so now you sees what good it doos to serve your 
elders when you’re young.” Here she turned to Bainton, who 
was standing disconsolately half in and half out of the kitchen 
doorway. a I’m real sorry, Mr. Bainton, that you can’t see 
our lady, more ’specially as you wishes to give a message from 
Passon Walden himself — but you jest go back and tell ’im 
’ow it is; — Miss Vaneourt is restin’ and can’t be disturbed 
nohow.” 

Bainton twirled his cap nervously in his hand. 

“I s’pose no one couldn’t say to her quiet-like as ’ow the 
Five Sisters be chalked? ” 

Mrs. Spruce raised her fat hands with a gesture of dismay. 

“ Lop bless the man ! ” she exclaimed ; “ D’ye think we’re 
go in’ to worrit Miss Vaneourt with the likes o’ that the very 
first evenin’ she’s set foot in ’er own ’ouse ? Why, we dussn’t ! 
An’ that there great dog Plato lyin’ on guard outside ’er door ! 
I’ve ’ad enough to-day with peacocks’ feathers, let alone the 
Five Sisters! Besides, Oliver Leach is agent ’ere, and what 
he says is sure to be done. She won’t worry ’erself about it, 
— and you may be pretty certain he won’t be interfered with. 
You tell Passon Walden I’m real sorry, but it can’t be ’elped.” 

Beluctantly, Bainton turned away. He was never much 
disposed for a discussion with Mrs. Spruce, — her mind was 
too illogical, and her tongue too persistent. Her allusion to 
peacocks’ feathers was unintelligible to him, and he wondered 
whether 6 anythink she’s been an’ took ’ had gone to her head. 
Anyway, his errand was foiled for the moment. But he was 
not altogether disheartened. He determined not to go back 
to Walden with his message quite undelivered. 

“ Where there’s a will, there’s a way ! ” he said to himself. 
“ I’ll go and do a bit of shoutin’ to Spruce, — deaf as he is, he’s 
; more reasonable-like than his old ’ooman ! ” 

With this resolve, he went his way by a short-cut through 
Abbot’s Manor gardens to a small thatched shelter in the 
woods, known as ‘ the foresters’ hut,’ where Spruce was gen- 
erally to be found at about sunset, smoking a peaceful pipe, 
alone and well out of his wife’s way. 

Meanwhile, Maryllia Vaneourt, lying wide awake on her bed 
in the long unused room that was to have been her mother’s, 
experienced various chaotic sensations of mingled pleasure and 
Tiain. For the first time in her life of full womanhood she was 


God’s Good Man 


123 


alone, — independent, — free to come or go as she listed, with 
no one to gainsay her wishes, or place a check on her caprices. 
She had deliberately thrown off her aunt's protection; and 
with that action, had given up the wealth and luxury with 
which she had been lavishly surrounded ever since her father's 
death. For reasons of her own, which she considered suffi- 
ciently cogent, she had also resigned all expectations of being 
her aunt's heiress. She had taken her liberty, and was pre- 
pared to enjoy it. She had professed herself perfectly con- 
tented to live on the comparatively small patrimony secured to 
her by her father's will. It was quite enough, she said, for a 
single woman, — at any rate, she would make it enough. 

And here she was, in her own old home, — the home of her 
childhood, which she was ashamed to think she had well-nigh 
forgotten. Since her fifteenth year she had travelled nearly all 
over the world; London, Paris, Vienna, New York, had each in 
turn been her ‘ home ' under the guidance of her wealthy per- 
ambulating American relative; and in the brilliant vortex of 
an over-moneyed society, she had been caught and whirled like 
a helpless floating straw. Mrs. ‘Fred' Vancourt, as her aunt 
was familiarly known to the press paragraphist, had spared no 
pains to secure for her a grand marriage, — and every possible 
advantage that could lead to that one culminating point, had 
been offered to her. She had been taught everything that 
could possibly add to her natural gifts of intelligence ; she had 
been dressed exquisitely, taken about everywhere, and ‘ shown 
off' to all the impecunious noblemen of Europe; — she had 
been flattered, praised, admired, petted and generally spoilt, 
and had been proposed to by ‘ eligible 9 gentlemen with every 
recurring season, — but all in vain. She had taken a singular 
notion into her head — an idea which her matter-of-fact aunt 
told her was supremely ridiculous. She wanted to be loved. 

“ Any man can ask a girl to marry him, if he has pluck and 
impudence ! " she said ; “ Especially if the girl has money, or 
expectations of money, and is not downright deformed, repul- 
sive and ill-bred. But proposals of marriage don't always 
mean love. I don't care a bit about being married, — but I 
do want to be loved — really loved ! — I want to be ‘ dear to 
someone else' as Tennyson sings it, — not for what I have , 
but for what I am." 

It was this curious, old-fashioned notion of wanting to be 
loved, that had estranged Maryllia from her wealthy American 
protectress. It had developed from mere fireside argument 
and occasional dissension, into downright feud, and its present 


124 


God’s Good Man 


result was self-evident. Maryllia had broken her social fetters, 
and had returned to her own rightful home in a state which, 
for her, considered by her past experience, was one of genteel 
poverty, but which was also one of glorious independence. 
And as she restfully reclined under the old rose silk hangings 
which were to have encanopied that perished beauty from 
which she derived lier own fairness, she was conscious of a 
novel and soothing sense of calm. The rush and hurry and 
frivolity of society seemed put away and done with; through 
her open window she could hear the rustling of leaves and the 
singing of birds ; — the room in which she found herself pleased 
her taste as well as her sentiment, — and though the faintest 
shadow of vague wonder crossed her mind as to what she 
would do with her time, now that she had gained her own way 
and was actually all alone in the heart of the country, she did 
not permit such a thought to trouble her peace. The grave 
tranquillity of the old house was already beginning to exert its 
influence on her always quick and perceptive mind, — the dear 
remembrance of her father whom she had idolised, and whose 
sudden death had been the one awful shock of her life, came 
back to her now with a fresh and tender pathos. Little 
incidents of her childhood and of its affection, such as she 
thought she had forgotten, presented themselves one by one in 
the faithful recording cells of her brain, — and the more or less 
feverish and hurried life she had been compelled to lead under 
her aunt’s command and chaperonage, began to efface itself 
slowly, like a receding coast-line from a departing vessel. 

“ It is home ! ” she said ; “ And I have not been in a home 
for years! Aunt Emily’s houses were never ‘home.’ And 
this is my home — my very own; the home of our family for 
generations. I ought to be proud of it, and I will be proud of 
it ! Even Aunt Emily used to say that Abbot’s Manor was a 
standing proof of the stuck-up pride of the Yancourts! I’m 
sure I shall find plenty to do here. I can farm my own lands 
and live on the profits — if there are any ! ” 

She laughed a little, and rising from the bed went to the 
window and leaned out. A large white clematis pushed its 
moonlike blossom up to her face, as though asking to be kissed, 
and a bright red butterfly danced dreamily up and down in the 
late, sunbeams, now poising on the ivy and anon darting off 
again into the mild still air. 

“ It’s perfectly lovely ! ” said Maryllia, with a little sigh of 
content ; “ And it is all my own ! ” 


God’s Good Man 125 

She drew her head in from the window and turned to her 
mirror. 

“ I’m getting old,” she said, surveying herself critically, and 
with considerable disfavour; — “It’s all the result of society 

* pressure,’ as they call it. There’s a line here — and another 
there” — indicating the imaginary facial defects with a small 
tapering forefinger — “ And I daresay I have some grey hairs, 
if I could only find them.” Here she untwisted the coil at 
the back of her head and let it fall in a soft curling shower 
round her shoulders — “ Oh, yes ! — I daresay ! ” she went on, 
addressing her image in the glass ; “ You think it looks very 
pretty — but that is only an 6 effect,’ you know! It’s like the 
advertisements the photographers do for the hairdressers; 

* Hair-positively-forced-to-grow-in-six-weeks ’ sort of thing. 
Oh, what a dear old chime ! ” This, as she heard the ancient 
clock in the square turret which overlooked the Tudor court- 
yard give forth a mellow tintinnabulation. “ What time is it, I 
wonder ? ” She glanced at the tiny trifle of a watch she had 
taken off and placed on her dressing-table. “ Quarter past 
seven ! I must have had a doze, after all. I think I will ring 
for Nancy Pyrle” — and she suited the action to the word; “I 
have not the least idea where my clothes are.” 

Nancy obeyed the summons with alacrity. She could not 
help a slight start as she saw her mistress, looking like f the 
picture of an angel’ as she afterwards described it, in her 
loose white dressing-gown, with all her hair untwisted and 
floating over her shoulders. She had never seen any human 
creature quite so lovely. 

“Do you know where my dresses are, Nancy?” enquired 
Maryllia. 

“ Yes, Miss. Mrs. Spruce unpacked everything herself, and 
the dresses are all hanging in this wardrobe.” Here Nancy 
went to the piece of furniture in question. “ Which one shall 
I give you, Miss ? ” 

Maryllia came to her side, and looked scrutinisingly at all 
the graceful Parisian and Viennese flimsies that hung in an 
orderly row within the wardrobe, uncertain which to take. 
At last she settled on an exceedingly simple white tea-gown, 
shaped after a Greek model, and wholly untrimmed, save for a 
small square gold band at the throat. 

“This will do!” she decided; “Nobody’s coming to dine; 
I shall be all alone ” 

The thought struck her as quaint and strange. Nobody 
xsoming to dinner! How very odd! At Aunt Emily’s there 


126 God’s Good Man 


was always someone, or several someones, to dinner. To-night| 
she would dine all alone. Well! It would be a novel expe- 
rience! 

“ Are there any nice people living about here ? ” she asked 
Nancy, as that anxious young woman carefully divested her of 
her elegant dressing-gown ; “ People I should like to know ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t think so, Miss,” replied Nancy, quite frankly, 
watching in wonder the dexterity and grace with which her 
mistress swept up all her hair into one rich twist and knotted 
it with two big tortoiseshell hairpins at the back of her head. 
“ There’s Sir Morton Pippitt at Badsworth Hall, three miles 
from here •” 

Maryllia laughed gaily. 

“ Sir Morton Pippitt! What a funny name! Who is he? ” 

“ Well, Miss, they do say he makes his money at bone- 
melting; but he’s awful proud for all that — awful proud he 
is ” 

“ Well, I should think so ! ” said Maryllia, with much 
solemnity ; “ Bone-melting is a great business ! Does he melt 
human bones, Nancy?” 

“ Oh, lor’. Miss, no! ” And Nancy laughed, despite herself; 
“ Not that I’ve ever heard on — it’s bones of animals he melts 
and turns into buttons and such-like.” 

“ Man is an animal, Nancy,” said Maryllia, sententiously, 
giving one or two little artistic touches to the loose waves of 
hair on her forehead ; “ Why should not his bones be turned 
into buttons? Why should he not be made useful? You may 
depend upon it, Nancy, human bones go into Sir Morton 
What’s-his-name’s stock-pot. I shouldn’t wonder if he had 
left his own bones to his business in his will ! 

“‘Imperial Caesar dead and turned to clay, 

May stop a hole to keep the wind away! * 

That’s so, Nancy! And is the gentleman who boils bones the 
only man about here o»e could ask to dinner?” 

Nancy reflected. 

“ There’s the Passon — ” she began. 

“ Oh, dear me ! ” exclaimed Maryllia, with a little shrug of 
impatience; “Worse than the bone-boiler! — a thousand times 
worse! There! That will do, Nancy! I’ll stroll about till 
dinner’s ready.” 

She left the room and descended the stairs, followed by the 
faithful Plato, and was soon to be seen by various retainers of 


God’s Good Man 


127 


the curious and excited household, walking slowly up and 
down on the grass terrace in her flowing white draperies, the 
afterglow of the sinking sun shining on her gold-brown hair, 
and touching up little reddish ripples in it, — such ripples as 
were painted by the artist of Charles the Second’s day when 
he brushed into colour and canvas the portrait of Mary 
Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt. Primmins, late butler to the 
irascible Sir Morton Pippitt, was so taken with the sight of her 
that he then and there resolved his ( temp’ry service ’ should 
be life-long, if he could manage to please her ; and little Kitty 
Spruce being permitted by her mother to peep at the ‘new 
lady’ through the staircase window, could only draw a long 
breath and ejaculate: “Oh! Ain’t she lovely!” while she 
followed with eagerly admiring eyes the gossamer trail of 
Maryllia’s white gown on the soft turf, and strained her ears 
to catch the sound of the sweet voice which suddenly broke 
out in a careless chansonette : 

“Tu m’aimes, chgrie? 

Dites-moi ! 

Seulement un petit ‘oui/ 

Je demande & toi! 

Le bonheur supr§me 
Vient quand on aime, 

N’est-ce-pas eherie? 

‘ Oui ’ ! ” 

“ She’s singin’ to herself ! ” said the breathless Kitty, whis- 
pering to her mother ; “ Ain’t she jest smilin’ and beautiful ? ” 
“ Well, I will own,” replied Mrs. Spruce, “ she’s as different 
to the lady I expected as cheese from chalk, which they 
generally says chalk from cheese, howsomever, that don’t 
matter. But if I don’t mistake, she’s got a will of ’er own, for 
all that she’s so smilin’ and beautiful as you says, Kitty; and 
now don’t you go runnin’ away with notions that you can dress 
like ’er or look like ’er, — for when once a gel of your make 
thinks she can imitate the fashions and the ways of a great 
lady, she’s done for, body and soul! You ain’t goin’ to wear 
white gowns and trail ’em up an’ down on the grass, nor ’ave 
big dogs a-follerin’ up an’ down while you sings in a furrin 
langwidge to yerself ; no, not if you was to read all the trashy 
story-books in the world — so you needn’t think it. For there 
ain’t no millionaires cornin’ artei you, as they doos in penny 
novels, — nor nothink else what’s dished up in newspapers; so 
jes’ wear your cotton frocks in peace, an’ don’t worry me with 


128 


God’s Good Man 


/ 


wantin' to look like Miss Maryllia, for you never won't look 
like 'er if ye tried till ye was dead! Remember that, now! 
The Lord makes a many women, — but now and again He turns 
out a few chice samples which won't bear copyin'. Miss 
Maryllia's one of them samples, and we must take 'er 'umbly 
wi*& prayer and thanksgivin' as sick I " 


IX 


■VTaetllta’s first solitary dinner in the home of her 

^ancestors passed off with tolerable success. She found 
something not altogether unpleasant in being alone after all. 
Plato was always an intelligent, well-behaved and dignified 
companion in his canine way, and the meal was elegantly 
served by Primmins, who waited on his new mistress with as 
much respect and zeal as if she had been a queen. A sense of 
authority and importance began to impress itself upon her as 
she sat at the head of her own table in her own dining-hall, 
with all the Vandykes and Holbeins and Gainsboroughs gazing 
placidly down upon her from their gilded frames, and the 
flicker of many wax candles in old silver sconces glancing upon 
the shields, helmets, rusty pikes and crossed swords that 
decorated the panelling of the walls between and above the 
pictures. 

“Fancy! Ho gas and no electric light! It is simply 
charming ! ” she thought, “ And so becoming to one’s dress 
and complexion! Only there’s nobody to see the becoming- 
ness. But I, can soon remedy that. Lots of people will come 
down and stay here if I only ask them. There’s one thing 
quite certain about society folk — they will always come where 
they can be lodged and boarded free! They call it country 
visiting, but it really means shutting up their houses, dismiss- 
ing their servants, and generally economising on their house- 
keeping bills. I’ve seen such a lot of it ! ” 

She heaved a little sigh over these social reminiscences, and 
finished her repast in meditative silence. She had not been 
accustomed to much thinking, and to indulge in it at all for 
any length of time was actually a novelty. Her aunt had told 
her never to think, as it made The face serious, and developed 
lines on the forehead. And she had, under this kind of tute- 
lage, became one of a brilliant, fashionable, dress-loving crowd 
of women, who spend most of their lives in caring for their 
complexions and counting their lovers. Yet every now and 
again, a wave of repugnance to such a useless sort of existence 
arose in her and made a stormy rebellion. Surely there was 

129 


130 


God’s Good Man 


something nobler in life — something higher — something more 
useful and intelligent than the ways and manners of a phys- 
ically and morally degenerate society? 

It was a still, calm evening, and the warmth of the sun all 
day had drawn such odours from the hearts of the flowers that 
the air was weighted with perfume when she wandered out 
again into her garden after dinner, and looked up wistfully at 
the gables of the Manor set clear against a background of 
dark blue sky patterned with stars. A certain gravity op- 
pressed her. There was, after all, something just a little eerie 
in the on-coming of night in this secluded woodland place 
where she had voluntarily chosen to dwell all alone and un- 
protected, rather than lend herself to her aunt’s match-making 
schemes. 

“Of course,” she argued with herself, “ I need not stay here 
if I don’t like it. I can get a paid companion and go travel- 
ling, — but, oh dear, I’ve had so much travelling! — or I can 
own myself in the wrong to Aunt Emily, and marry that 
wretch Roxmouth, — Oh, no ! I could not ! I will not ! ” 

She gave an impatient little stamp with her foot, and anon 
surveyed the old house with affectionate eyes. 

“ You shall be my rescue ! ” she said, kissing her hand 
playfully to the latticed windows, — “You shall turn me into 
an old-fashioned lady, fond of making jams and pickles, and 
preserves and herbal waters! I’ll put away all the idiotic 
intrigues and silly fooling of modem society in one of your 
quaint oaken cupboards, and lock them all up with little bags 
of lavender to disinfect them! And I will wait for someone 
to come and find me out and love me; and if no one ever 

comes ” Here she paused, then went on, — “If no one 

ever comes, why then — ” and she laughed — “some man will 
have lost a good chance of marrying as true a girl as ever 
lived ! — a girl who could love — ah ! ” And she stretched out 
her pretty rounded arms to the scented air. “ How she could 
love if she were loved ! ” 

The young moon here put in a shy appearance by showing 
a fleck of silver above the highest gable of the Manor. 

“A little diamond peak, 

No bigger than an unobserved star, 

Or tiny point of fairy scimitar; 

Bright signal that she only stooped to tie 

Her silver sandals ere deliciously , 

She bowed unto the heavens her timid head, 

Slowly she rose as though she would have fled.* 


God’s Good Man 


131 

“ There’s no doubt,” said Maryllia, “ that this place is 
romantic! And romance is what I’ve been searching for all 
my life, and have never found except in books. Not so much 
in modern books as in the books that were written by really 
poetical and imaginative people sixty or seventy years ago. 
Nowadays, the authors that are most praised go in for what 
they call ‘ realism,’ — and their realism is very unreal, and 
very nasty. For instance, this garden, — these lovely trees, — 
this dear old house — all these are real — but much too romantic 
for a modem writer. He would rather describe a dusthole 
and enumerate every potato paring in it! And here am I 
- — I’m real enough — but I’m not a bad woman — I haven’t got 
what is euphoniously called 4 a past,’ and I don’t belong to 
the right-down vicious company of ‘ Souls.’ So I should never 
do for a heroine of latter-day fiction. I’m afraid I’m abnormal. 
It’s dreadful to be abnormal ! One becomes a ‘ neurotic,’ like 
Lombroso, and all the geniuses. But suppose the world were 
full of merely normal people, — people who did nothing but 
eat and sleep in the most perfectly healthy and regular 
manner, — oh, what a bore it would be ! There would be 
no pictures, no sculpture, no poetry, no music, no anything 
worth living for. One must have a few ideas beyond food 
and clothing ! ” 

The moon rose higher and shed a shower of silver over the 
grass, lighting up in strong relief the fair face upturned to it. 

“ Now the ‘ Souls ’ pretend to have ideas,” continued 
Maryllia, still apostrophising the bland stillness; “But their 
ideas are low,— decidedly low, — and decidedly queer. And 
that Cabinet Ministers are in their set doesn’t make them any 
the better. I could have been a * Soul ’ if I had liked. I 
could have learnt a lot of wicked secrets from the married 
peer who wanted to be my ‘ affinity,’ — only I wouldn’t. I could 
have got all the Government ‘tips,’ gambled with them on 
the Stock Exchange, and made quite a fortune as a ‘ Soul.’ 
Yet here I am, — no ‘ Soul,’ — but only a poor little body, with 
something in me that asks for a higher flight than mere social 
intrigue. Just a bit of a higher flight, eh, Plato? What do 
you think about it ? ” 

Plato the leonine, waved his plumy tail responsively and 
gently rubbed his great head against her arm. Besting one 
hand lightly on his neck, she moved towards the house and 
slowly ascended the graduating slopes of the grass terrace. 
Here she was suddenly met by Primmins. 

“Beg your pardon. Miss,” he said, with an apologetic air, 


132 


God’s Good Man 


“ but there’s an old man from the village come up to see you 
— a very old man, — he’s had to be carried in a chair, and it’s 
took a couple of men nigh an hour and a half to bring him 
along. He says he knew you years ago — I hardly like to 
send him away ” 

“ Certainly not ! — of course you mustn’t send him away,” 
said Maryllia, quickening her steps ; “ Poor old dear ! Where 
is he?” 

“In the great hall, Miss. They brought him through the 
courtyard and got him in there, before I had time to send 
them round to the back entrance.” 

Maryllia entered the house. There she was met by Mrs. 
Spruce, with uplifted hands. 

“ Well, it do beat me altogether. Miss,” she exclaimed, “ as 
to how these silly men, my ’usband, too, one of the silliest, 
beggin’ your parding, could bring that poor old Josey Lether- 
barrow up here all this way ! And he not toddled beyond the 
church this seven or eight years! And it’s all about those 
blessed Five Sisters they’ve come, though I told ’em you can’t 
nohow be worrited and can’t see no one ” 

“ But I can ! ” said Maryllia decisively ; “ I can see anyone 
who wishes to see me, and I will. Let me pass, Mrs. Spruce, 
please ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce, thus abruptly checked, stood meekly aside, 
controlling her desire to pour forth fresh remonstrances at 
the unseemliness of any person or persons intruding upon the 
lady of the Manor at so late an hour in the evening as half- 
past nine o’clock. Maryllia hastened into the hall and there 
found an odd group awaiting her, composed of three very 
odd-looking personages, — much more novel and striking in 
their oddity than anything that could have been presented 
to her view in the social whirl of Paris and London. Josey 
Letherbarrow was the central figure, seated bolt upright in 
a cane arm-chair, through the lower part of which a strong 
pole had been thrust, securely nailed and clamped, as well 
as tied in a somewhat impromptu fashion with clothes-line. 
This pole projected about two feet on either side of the 
chair to accommodate the bearers, namely Spruce and Bainton, 
who, having set their burden down, were now wiping their 
hot faces and perspiring brows with flagrantly coloured 
handkerchiefs of an extra large size. As Maryllia appeared, 
they abruptly desisted^ from this occupation and remained 
motionless, stricken with sudden confusion and embarrass- 
ment. Not so old Josey, for with unexpected alacrity he got 


God’s Good Man 


133 


out of his chair and stood upright, supporting himself on his 
stick, and doffing his old straw hat to the light girlish figure 
that approached him with the grace of kindliness and sym- 
pathy expressed in its every movement. 

“There she be!” he exclaimed; “There be the little gel 
wot I used to know when she was a babby, God bless ’er ! 
Jes’ the same eyes and ’air and purty face of ’er! Welcome 
’ome to th’ owld Squire’s daughter, mates ! D’ye ’ear me ! ” 
And he turned a dim rolling eye of command on Spruce and 
Bainton — “I sez welcome ’ome! And when I sez it I ’spect 
it to be said arter me by the both of ye, — welcome ’ome ! ” 

Spruce, unable to hear a word of this exordium, smiled 
sheepishly, — and twirling the cap he held, put his coloured 
handkerchief into it and squeezed it tightly within the lining. 
Bainton, with the impending fate of the Five Sisters in view, 
judged it advisable not to irritate or disobey the old gentle- 
man whom he had brought forward as special pleader in the 
case, and gathering his wits together he spoke out bravely. 

“Welcome ’ome, it is, Josey!” he said; “We both sez it, 
and we both means it! And we ’opes the young lady will 
not take it amiss as ’ow we’ve come to see ’er on the first 
night of ’er return, and wish ’er ’appy in the old ’ouse and 
long may she remain in it ! ” 

Here he broke off, his eloquence being greatly disturbed 
by the gracious smile Maryllia gave him. 

“ Thank you so much ! ” she murmured sweetly ; and then 
going up to Josey Letherbarrow, she patted the brown wrinkled 
hand that grasped the stick. “How kind and good of you 
to come and see me! And so you knew me when I was a 
little girl? I hope I was nice to you! Was I?” 

Josey waved his straw hat speechlessly. His first burst 
of enthusiasm over, he was somewhat dazed, and a little 
uncertain as to how he should next proceed with his mission. 

“ Tell ’er as ’ow the Five Sisters be chalked ; ” growled 
Bainton in an undertone. 

But Josey’s mind had gone wandering far afield, groping 
amid memories of the past, and his aged eyes were fixed on 
Maryllia with a strange look of wonder and remembrance 
commingled. 

“ Th’ owld Squire ! Th’ owld Squire ! ” he muttered ; “ I 
see ’im now — as broad an’ tall and well-set up a gentleman 
as ever lived — and sez he: ‘Josey, that little white thing is 
all I’ve got left of the wife I was bringin’ ’ome to be the 
sunshine of the old Manor.’ Ay, he said that! ‘Its eyes 


134 


God’s Good Man 


are like those of my Dearest!’ Ay, he said that, too! The 
little white thing ! She’s ’ere, — and th’ owld Squire’s gone ! ” 

The pathos of his voice struck Maryllia to the heart, — 
and for the moment she could not keep back a few tears 
that gathered, despite herself, and glistened on her long 
lashes. Furtively she dashed them away, but not before 
Bainton had seen them. 

“ Well, arter all, Josey’s nothin’ but a meanderin’ old 
idgit ! ” he thought angrily ; “ ’Ere ’ave I been an’ took ’im 
for a wise man wot would know exackly ’ow to begin and ask 
for the sparin’ of the old trees, and if he ain’t gone on the 
wrong tack altogether and made the poor little lady cry! I 
think I’ll do a bit of this business myself while I’ve got the 
chance — for if I don’t, ten to one he’ll be tellin’ the story of the 
wopses’ nest next, and a fine oncommon show we’ll make of 
ourselves ’ere with our manners.” And he coughed loudly — 
“Ahem! Josey, will you tell Miss Vancourt about the Five 
Sisters, or shall I ? ” 

Maryllia glanced from one to the other in bewilderment. 

“ The Five Sisters ! ” she echoed ; “ Who are they ? ” 

Here Spruce imagined, as he often did, that he had been 
asked a question. 

“ Such were our orders from Mr. Leach,” he said, in his 
quiet equable voice; “We’s to be there to-morrow marnin’ 
quarter afore six with ropes and axes.” 

“Ropes and axes shall not avail against the finger of the 
Lord, or the wrath of the Almighty! ” said Josey Letherbarrow, 
suddenly coming out of his abstraction ; “ And if th’ owld 
Squire were alive he wouldn’t have had ’em touched — no, 
Mot he! He’d ha’ starved sooner! And if the Five Sisters 
are laid low, the luck of the Manor will lay low with ’em! 
But it’s not too late — not too late ! ” — and he turned his 
face, now alive in its every feature with strong emotion, to 
Maryllia — “ Not too late if the Squire’s little gel is still her 
father’s pride and glory! And that’s what I’ve come for to 
the Manor this night, — I ain’t been inside the old ’ouse for 
this ten ’ear or more, but they’s brought me, — me — old Josey, 
— stiff as I am, and failin’ as I am, to see ye, my dear little 
gel, and ask ye for God’s love to save the old trees wot ’as 
waved in the woodland free and wild for ’undreds o’ years, and 
wot deserves more gratitude from Abbot’s Manor than killin’ 
for long sarvice ! ” 

He began to tremble with nervous excitement, and Maryllia 
put her hand soothingly on his arm. 


God’s Good Man 


135 


“You must sit down, Josey,” she said; “You will be so 
tired standing! Sit down and tell me all about it! What 
trees are you speaking of? And who is going to cut them 
down ? You see I don’t know anything about the place 
yet, — I’ve only just arrived — but if they are my trees, and 
you say my father would not have wished them to be cut 
down, they shan’t be cut down ! — be sure of that ! ” 

Josey’s eyes sparkled, and he waved his battered hat tri- 
umphantly. 

“ Didn’t I tell ye ? ” he exclaimed, turning round upon 
Bainton; “Didn’t I say as ’ow this was the way to do it? — 
and as ’ow the little gel wot I knew as a bahby would listen 
to me when she wouldn’t listen to no one else? An’ as ’ow 
the Five Sisters would be spared? An’ worn’t I right? 
Worn’t I true? ” 

Maryllia smiled. 

“ You really must sit down ! ” she said again, gently per- 
suading him into his chair, wherein he sank heavily, like a 
stone, though his face shone with alertness and vigour. 
“ Primmins ! ” and she addressed that functionary who had 
been standing in the background watching the little scene; 
“ Bring some glasses of port wine.” Primmins. vanished to 
execute this order. “ Now, you dear old man,” continued 
Maryllia, drawing up an oaken settle close to Josey’s knee 
and seating herself with a confidential air; “you must tell 
me just what you want me to do, and I will do it ! ” 

She looked a mere child, with her fair face upturned and 
her rippling hair falling loosely away from her brows. A great 
tenderness softened Josey’s eyes as he fixed them upon her. 

“ God Almighty bless ye ! ” he said, raising his trembling 
hand above her head ; “ God bless ye in your uprisin’ and 
downlyin’, — and make the old ’ouse and the old ways sweet 
to ye! For there’s naught like ’ome in a wild wandering 
world — and naught like love to make ’appiness out of sorrow! 
God bless ye, dear little gel ! — and give ye all your ’art’s desire, 
if so be it’s for your good and guidin’ ! ” 

Instinctively, Maryllia bent her head with a pretty reverence 
under the benediction of so venerable a personage, and gently 
pressed the wrinkled hand as it slowly dropped again. Then 
glancing at Bainton, she said softly: 

“He’s very tired, I’m afraid! — perhaps too tired to tell 
me all he wishes to say. Will you explain what it is he 
wants ? ” 

Bainton, thus adjured, took courage. 


God’s Good Man 


136 

“ Thank ye kindly. Miss ; and if I may make so bold, it’s 
not what he wants more’n wot all the village wants and wot 
we’ve been ’opin’ against ’ope for, trustin’ to the chance of 
your cornin’ ’ome to do it for us. Passon Walden he’s a 
rare good man, and he’s done all he can, and he’s been and 
seen Oliver Leach, but it ain’t all no use, ” 

He paused, as Maryllia interrupted him by a gesture. 

“ Oliver Leach ? ” she queried ; “ He’s my agent here, I 
believe ? ” 

“ Jes’ so, Miss — he was put in as agent arter the Squire’s 
death, and he’s been ’ere ever since, bad luck to ’im! And 
he’s been a-cuttin’ down timber on the place whenever he’s 
took a mind to, askin’ no by-your-leaves, and none of us ’adn’t 
no right to say a wurrd, he bein’ master-like — but when it 
comes to the Pive Sisters — why then we sez, if the Five 
Sisters lay low there’s an end of the pride and prosperity of 
the village, an’ Passon Walden he be main worrited about it, 
for he do love trees like as they were his own brothers, 
m’appen more’n brothers, for sometimes there’s no love lost 
twixt the likes o’ they, and beggin’ your pardon, Miss, he sent 
me to ye with a message from hisself ’fore dinner, but you 
was a-lyin’ down and couldn’t be disturbed nohow, so I goes 
down to Spruce” — here Bainton indicated the silent Spruce 
with a jerk of his thumb — “he be the forester ’ere, under 
Mr. Leach’s orders, as deaf as a post unless you ’oilers at him, 
but a good-meanin’ man for all that — and I sez, ‘ Spruce, you 
and me ’ull go an’ fetch old Josey Letherbarrow, and see if 
bein’ the oldest ’n’abitant, as they sez in books, he can’t get 
a wurrd with Miss Yancourt, and so ’ere we be, Miss, for the 
trees be chalked” — and he turned abruptly to Spruce and 
bellowed — •“ Baint the trees chalked for cornin’ down to- 
morrow marnin’ ? Speak fair ! ” 

Spruce heard, and at once gave a lucid statement. 

“ By Mr. Leach’s orders, Miss,” he said, addressing Maryllia ; 
“ The five old beech-trees on the knoll, which the village folk 
call the ‘Five Sisters,’ are to be felled to-morrow marnin’. 
They’ve stood, so I’m told, an’ so I b’lieve, two or three 
hundred years ” 

“ And they’re going to be cut down ! ” exclaimed Maryllia. 
u I never heard of such wickedness ! How disgraceful ! ” 

Spruce saw by the movement of her lips that she was 
speaking, and therefore at once himself subsided into silence. 
Bainton again took up the parable. 

“ He’s nigh stone-deaf, Miss, so you’ll ’scuse him if he don’t 


God’s Good Man 


137 


open his mouth no more till we shouts at him — but what he 
sez is true enough. At six o’clock to-morrow marnin’ ” 

Here Primmins entered with the port wine. 

“ Primmins, where does the agent, Leach, live ? ” enquired 
Maryllia. 

“ I really couldn’t say. Miss. Pll ask ” 

“’Tain’t no use askin’,” said Bain ton; “He lives a mile out 
of the village; but he ain’t at ’ome nohow this evenin’ bein’ 
gone to Kiversford town for a hit o’ gamblin’ at cards. Lor’, 
Miss, beggin’ yer pardon, gamblin’ with the cards do get rid 
o’ timber — it do reely now ! ” 

Maryllia took a glass of port wine from the tray which 
Primmins handed to her, and gave it herself to old Josey* 
Her mind had entirely grasped the situation, despite the 
prolix nature of Bainton’s discourse. A group of historic old 
trees were to he felled by the agent’s orders at six o’clock the 
next morning unless she prevented it. That was the sum 
total of the argument. And here was something for her to 
do, and she resolved to do it. 

“How, Josey,” she said with a smile, “you must drink a 
glass of wine to my health. And you also — and you ! ” and 
she nodded encouragingly to Spruce and Bainton ; “ And be 
quite satisfied about the trees — they shall not be touched.” 

“God bless ye!” said Josey, drinking off his wine at a 
gulp ; “ And long life t’ye and ’appiness to enjoy it ! ” 

Bainton, with a connoisseur’s due appreciation of a good 
old brand, sipped at his glass slowly, while Spruce, hastily 
swallowing his measure of the cordial, wiped his mouth 
furtively with the back of his hand, murmuring : “ Your good 
’elth, an’ many of ’em ! ” 

“Wishin’ ye long days o’ peace an’ plenty,” said Bainton, 
between his appreciative sips; “But as fur as the trees is 
consarned, you’ll ’scuse me. Miss, for sayin’ it, but the time 
bein’ short, I don’t see ’ow it’s goin’ to be ’elped, Oliver Leach 
bein’ away, and no post delivered at his ’ouse till eight 
o’clock ” 

“I will settle all that,” said Maryllia — “You must leave 
everything to me. In the meantime,” — and she glanced at 
Spruce, — then appealingly turned to Bainton, — •“ Will you try 
and make your friend understand an order I want to give 
him? Or shall I ask Mrs. Spruce to come and speak to 
him?” 

“Lord love ye, he’ll be sharper to hear me than his wife, 
Miss, beggin’ yer pardon,” said Bainton, with entire frankness. 


God’s Good Man 


138 

“He’s too accustomed to her jawin’ an’ wouldn’t get a clear 
impression like. Spruce ! ” And he uplifted his voice in a 
roar that made the old rafters of the hall ring. “ Get ready 
to take Miss 'V ancourt’s orders, will ye ? ” 

Spruce was instantly on the alert, and put his hand to his 
ear. 

“ Tell him, please,” said Maryllia, still addressing Bainton, 
“that he is to meet the agent as arranged at the appointed 
place to-morrow morning ; but that he is not to take any ropes 
or axes or any men with him. He is simply to say that by 
Miss Vancourt’s orders the trees are not to be touched.” 

These words Bainton dutifully bellowed into Spruce’s semi- 
closed organs of hearing. A look first of astonishment and 
then of fear came over the simple fellow’s face. 

“ I’m afraid,” he at last faltered, “ that the lady does not 
know what a hard man Mr. Leach is; he’ll as good as kill me 
if I go there alone to him ! ” 

“ Lord love ye, man, you won’t be alone ! ” roared Bainton,— 
“ There’s plenty in the village ’ull take care o’ that ! ” 

“ Say to him,” continued Maryllia steadily, noting the 
forester’s troubled countenance, “ he must now remember 
that I am mistress here, and that my orders, even if given at 
the last moment, are to be obeyed.” 

“That’s it!” chuckled Josey Letherbarrow, knocking his 
stick on the ground in a kind of ecstasy, — “ That’s it ! Things 
ain’t goin’ to be as they ’as been now the Squire’s little gel 
is ’ome ! That’s it ! ” And he nodded emphatically. “ Give 
a reskil rope enough an’ he’ll ’ang hisself by the neck till he be 
dead, and the Lord ha’ mercy on his soul ! ” 

Maryllia smiled, watching all her three quaint visitors with 
a sensation of mingled interest and whimsical amusement. 

“ D’ye hear? You’re to tell Leach,” shouted Bainton, “ that 
Miss Vancourt is mistress ’ere, and her orders is to be obeyed 
at the last moment ! Which you might ha’ understood without 
splittin’ my throat to tell ye, if ye had a little more sense, 
which, lackin’, ’owever, can’t be ’elped. What are ye afeard 
of, eh?” 

“ Mr. Leach is a hard man,” continued Spruce, anxiously 
glancing at Maryllia ; “ He would lose me my place if he 
could ” 

Maryllia heard, and privately decided that the person to 
lose his place would be Leach himself. “ It is quite exciting ! ” 
she thought ; “ I was wondering a while ago what I should 
do to amuse myself in the country, and here I am called upon 


God’s Good Man 139 

at once to remedy wrongs and settle village feuds! Nothing 
could be more novel and delightful ! ” Aloud, she said, — 

“ None of the people who were in my father’s service will 
lose their places with me, unless for some very serious fault. 
Please ” — and she raised her eyes in pretty appeal to Bainton, 
“ Please make everybody understand that! Are you one of 
the foresters here ? ” 

Bainton shook his head. 

“No, Miss, — I’m the Passon’s head man. I does all his 
gardening and keeps a few flowers growin’ in the churchyard. 
There’s a rose climbin’ over the cross on the old Squire’s 
grave what will do ye good to see, come another fortnight of 
this warm weather. But Passon, he be main worrited about 
the Five Sisters, and knowin’ as ’ow I’d worked for the old 
Squire at ’arvest an’ sich-like, he thought I might be able to 
’splain to ye ” 

“ I see ! ” said Maryllia, thoughtfully, surveying with re- 
newed interest the old-world figure of Josey Letherbarrow in 
his clean smock-frock. “ Now, how are you going to get Josey 
home again?” And a smile irradiated her face. “Will you 
carry him along just as you brought him?” 

“ Why, yes, Miss — it’ll be all goin’ downhill now, and there’s 
a moon, and it’ll be easy work. And if so be we’re sure the 
Five Sisters ’ull be saved ” 

“You may be perfectly certain of it,” said Maryllia inter- 
rupting him with a little gesture of decision — “ Only you must 
impress well on Mr. Spruce here, that my orders are to be 
obeyed.” 

“ Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss — what Spruce is afeard of is that 
Leach may tell him he’s a liar, and may jest refuse to obey. 
That’s quite on the cards. Miss — it is reely now ! ” 

“ Oh, is it, indeed ! ” and Maryllia’s eyes flashed with a 
sudden fire that made them look brighter and deeper than 
ever and revealed a depth of hidden character not lacking in 
self-will, — “ Well, we shall see ! At any rate, I have given my 
orders, and I expect them to be carried out! You under- 
stand ! ” 

“I do. Miss;” and Bainton touched his forelock respect- 
fully; “An’ while we’re joggin’ easy downhill with Josey, I’ll 
get it well rubbed into Spruce. And, by yer leave, if you 
hain’t no objection, I’ll tell Passon Walden that sich is your 
orders, and m’appen he’ll find a way of impressin’ Leach 
straighter than we can.” 

Maryllia was not particularly disposed to have the parson 


140 


God’s Good Man 


brought into her affairs, but she waived the query lightly aside. 

“You can do as you like about that,” she said carelessly; 
“ As the parson is your master, you can of course tell him 
ii you think he will be interested. But I really don’t see 
why he should be asked to interfere. My orders are sufficient.” 

A very decided ring of authority in the clear voice warned 
Bainton that here was a lady who was not to be trifled with, 
or to be told this or that, or to be put off from her intentions 
by any influence whatsoever. He could not very well offer a 
reply, so he merely touched his forelock again and was dis- 
creetly silent. Maryllia then turned playfully to Josey 
Letherbarrow. 

“Now are you quite happy?” she asked. “Quite easy in 
your mind about the trees ? ” 

“ Thanks be to the Lord and you, God bless ye ! ” said 
Josey, piously; “I’m sartin sure the Live Sisters ’ull wave 
their leaves in the blessed wind long arter I’m laid under the 
turf and the daisies l I’ll sleep easy this night for knowin’ it, 
and thank ye kindly and all blessin’ be with ye! And if I 
never sees ye no more ” 

“Now, Josey, don’t talk nonsense!” said Maryllia, with a 
pretty little air of protective remonstrance ; “ Such a clever 
old person as you are ought to know better than to be morbid ! 
4 Never see me no more’ indeed! Why I’m coming to see 
you soon, — very soon! I shall find out where you live, and I 
shall pay you a visit! I’m a dreadful talker! You shall tell 
me all about the village and the people in it, and I’m sure I 
shall learn more from you in an hour than if I studied the 
place by myself for a week ! Shan’t I ? ” 

Josey was decidedly flattered. The port wine had reddened 
his nose and had given an extra twinkle to his eyes. 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to deny but what I knows a thing or 
two — ” he began, with a sly glance at her. 

“ Of course you do ! Heaps of things ! I shall coax them 
all out of you ! And now, good-night ! — No ! — don’t get up ! ” 
for Josey was making herculean efforts to rise from his chair 
again. “Just stay where you are, and let them carry you 
carefully home. Good-night ! ” 

She gave a little salute which included all three of her rustic 
visitors, and moved away. Passing under the heavily-carved 
arched beams of oak which divided the hall from the rest of 
the house, she turned her head backward over her shoulder 
with a smile. 

“Good-night, Ambassador Josey!” 


God’s Good Man 


141 


Josey waved his old hat energetically. 

“ Good-night, my beauty! Good-night to Squire’s gel! 
Good-night ” 

But before he could pile on any more epithets, she was 
gone, and the butler Primmins stood in her place. 

“ I’ll help give you a lift down to the gates,” he said, 
surveying Josey with considerable interest; “You’re a game 
old chap for your age ! ” 

Josey was still waving his hat to the dark embrasure 
through which Maryllia’s white figure had vanished. 

“ Ain’t she a beauty? Ain’t she jest a real Yancourt pride? ” 
he demanded excitedly; “Lord! We won’t know ourselves 
in a month or two! You marrk my wurrds, boys! See if 
what I say don’t come true! Leach may cheat the gallus, 
but he won’t cheat them blue eyes, let him try ever so ! They’ll 
be the Lord’s arrows in his skin ! You see if they ain’t ! ” 

Bainton here gave a signal to Spruce, and they hoisted up 
the improvised carrying-chair between them, Primmins steady- 
ing it behind. 

“ There ain’t goin’ to be no layin’ low of the Five Sisters ! ” 
Josey continued with increasing shrillness and excitement as 
he was borne out into the moonlit courtyard ; “ And there 
ain’t goin’ to be no devil’s work round the old Manor no 
more ! Welcome ’ome to Squire’s gel ! Welcome ’ome ! ” 

“Shut up, Josey!” said Bainton, though kindly enough — 
“ You’ll soon part with all the breath you’ve got in yer body if 
ye makes a screech owl of yerself like that in the night air ! 
You’s done enough for once in a way, — keep easy an’ quiet 
while we carries ye back to the village — ye weighs a hundred 
pound ’eavier if ye’re noisy, — ye do reely now ! ” 

Thus adjured, Josey subsided into silence, and what with 
the joy he felt at the success of his embassy, the warm still 
air, and the soothing influence of the moonlight, he soon fell 
fast asleep, and did not wake till he arrived at his own home 
in safety. Having deposited him there, and seen to his com- 
fort, Spruce and Bainton left him to his night’s rest, and held 
a brief colloquy outside his cottage door. 

“I’m awful ’feard goin’ to-morrow mamin’ up to the Five 
Sisters with ne’er a tool and ne’er a man, — Leach ’ull be that 
wild ! ” said Spruce, his rubicund face paling at the very 
thought — “ If I could but ’ave ’ad written instructions, like ! ” 

“Why didn’t you ask for ’em while you ’ad the chance?” 
demanded Bainton testily; “It’s too late now to bother your 
mind with what ye might ha’ done if ye’d had a bit of gump- 


142 


God’s Good Man 


tion. And it’s too late for me to be goin’ and speakin’ to 
Passon Walden. There’s nothin’ to be done now till the 
marnin’ ! ” 

“ Nothin’ to be done till the marnin’,” echoed Sprnce with 
a sigh, catching these words by happy chance ; “ All the same, 
she’s a fine young lady, and ’er orders is to be obeyed. She 
ain’t a bit like what I expected her to be.” 

“ Nor she ain’t what I bet she would be,” said Bainton, 
heedless as to whether his companion heard him or not ; “ I’ve 
lost ’arf a crown to my old ’ooman, for I sez, sez I, i She’s 
bound to be a ’igh an’ mighty stuck-up sort o’ miss wot won’t 
never ’ave a wurrd for the likes of we,’ an’ my old ’ooman 
she sez to me : ( Go ’long with ye for a great silly gawk as ye 
are ; I’ll bet ye ’arf a crown she won’t be ! ’ So I sez ‘ Done,’ 
— an’ done it is. Por she’s just as sweet as clover in the 
spring, an’ seems as gentle as a lamb, — though I reckon she’s 
got a will of ’er own and a mind to do what she likes, when 
and ’ow she likes. I’ll ’ave a fine bit o’ talk with Passon 
’bout her as soon as iver he gives me the chance.” 

“ Ay, good-night it is,” observed Spruce, placidly taking all 
these remarks as evening adieux, — “ Yon moon’s got ’igh, 
and it’s time for bed if so be we rises early. Easy rest ye ! ” 

Bainton nodded. It was all the response necessary. The 
two then separated, going their different ways to their different 
homes. Spruce having to get back to the Manor and a possible 
curtain-lecture from his wife. All the village was soon asleep, 
— and eleven o’clock rang from the church-tower over closed 
cottages in which not a flicker of lamp or candle was to be 
seen. The moonbeams shed a silver rain upon the outlines 
of the neatly thatched roofs and barns — illumining with 
touches of radiance as from heaven, the beautiful ‘ God’s 
House ’ which dominated the whole cluster of humble habita- 
tions. Everything was very quiet, — the little hive of humanity 
had ceased buzzing; and the intense stillness was only broken 
by the occasional murmur of a ripple breaking from the river 
against the pebbly shore. 

Up at the Manor, however, the lights were not yet ex- 
tinguished. Maryllia, on the departure of 1 Ambassador 
Josey’ as she had called him, and his two convoys, had sent 
for Mrs. Spruce and had gone very closely with her into certain 
matters connected with Mr. Oliver Leach. It had been diffi- 
cult work, — for Mrs. Spruce’s garrulity, combined with her 
habit of wandering from the immediate point of discussion, 
and her anxiety to avoid involving herself or her husband in 


God’s Good Man 


143 


trouble, bad created a chaotic confusion in her mind, which 
somewhat interfered with the lucidity of her statements. 
Little by little, however, Maryllia extracted a sufficient number 
of facts from her hesitating and reluctant evidence to gain 
considerable information on many points respecting the man- 
agement of her estate, and she began to feel that her return 
home was providential and had been in a manner pre-ordained. 
She learned all that Mrs. Spruce could tell her respecting the 
famous ‘Five Sisters’; how they were the grandest and most 
yenerable trees in all the country round — and how they stood 
all together on a grassy eminence about a mile and a half from 
the Manor house and on the Manor lands just beyond the 
more low-lying woods that spread between. Whereupon 
Maryllia decided that she would take an early ride over 
her property the next day, — and gave orders that her favourite 
mare, ‘ Cleopatra/ ready saddled and bridled, should be 
brought round to the door at five o’clock the next morning. 
This being settled, and Mrs. Spruce having also humbly stated 
that all the peacock’s feathers she could find had been sum- 
marily cast forth from the Manor through the medium of the 
parcels’ post, Maryllia bade her a kindly good-night. 

“To-morrow,” she said, “we will go all over the house 
together, and you will explain everything to me. But the first 
thing to be done is to save those old trees.” 

“ Well, no one wouldn’t ’ave saved ’em if so be as you ’adn’t 
come ’ome, Miss,” declared Mrs. Spruce. “For Mr. Leach 
he be a man of his word, and as obs’nate as they makes ’em, 
which the Lord Almighty knows men is all made as obs’nate 
as pigs — and he’s been master over the place like ” 

“ More’s the pity ! ” said Maryllia ; “ But he is master here 
no longer, Spruce;- I am now both mistress and master. 
Remember that, please ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce curtseyed dutifully and withdrew. The close 
cross-examination she had undergone respecting Leach had 
convinced her of two things, — firstly, that her new mistress, 
though such a childlike-looking creature, was no fool, — and 
secondly, that though she was perfectly gentle, kind, and even 
affectionate in her manner, she evidently had a will of her own, 
which it seemed likely she would enforce, if necessary, with 
considerable vigour and imperativeness. And so the worthy 
old housekeeper decided that on the whole it would be well 
to be careful, — to mind one’s P’s and Q’s as it were, — to pause 
before rushing pell-mell into a flood of unpremeditated speech. 


144 God’s Good Man 

and to pay the strictest possible attention to her regulaf 
duties. 

“ Then m’appen well stay on in the old place,” she con- 
sidered ; “ But if we doos those things which we ought not to 
have done, as they sez in the prayer-book, well get the sack 
in no time, for all that she looks so smilin’ and girlie-like.” 

And so profound were her cogitations on this point that 
she actually forgot to give her husband the sound rating she 
had prepared for him concerning the part he had taken in 
bringing Josey Letherbarrow up to the Manor. Returning 
from the village in some trepidation, that harmless man was 
allowed to go to bed and sleep in peace, with no more than a 
reminder shrilled into his ears to be ‘up with the dawn, as 
Miss Maryllia would be about early.’ 

Maryllia herself, meanwhile, quite unconscious that her 
small personality had made any marked or tremendous effect 
upon her domestics, retired to rest in happy mood. She was 
glad to be in her own home, and still more glad to find herself 
needed there. 

“I’ve been an absolutely useless creature up till now,” she 
said, shaking down her hair, after the maid Nancy had dis- 
robed her and left her for the night. “ The fact is, there never 
was a more utterly idle and nonsensical creature in the world 
than I am! I’ve done nothing but dress and curl my hair, 
and polish my face, and dance, and flirt and frivol the time 
away. Now, if I only am able to save five historical old trees, 
I shall have done something useful; — something more than 
half the women I know would ever take the trouble to do. For, 
of course, I suppose I shall have a row, — or as Aunt Emily 
would say ‘ words,’ — with the agent. All the better ! I love a 
fight, — especially with a man who thinks himself wiser than I 
am! That is where men are so ridiculous, — they always think 
themselves wiser than women, even though some of them 
can’t earn their own living except through a woman’s means. 
Lots of men will take a woman’s money, and sneer at her 
while spending it ! I know them ! ” And she nestled into 
her bed, with a little cosy cuddling movement of her soft white 
shoulders ; “ ‘ Take all and give nothing ! ’ is the motto of 
modern manhood; — I don’t admire it, — I don’t endorse it; 
I never shall ! The true motto of love and chivalry should be 
‘ Give all — take nothing ’ ! ” 

Midnight chimed from the courtyard turret. She listened 
to the mellow clang with a sense of pleased comfort and 
security. 


God’s Good Man 


145 


“ Many people would think of ghosts and all sorts of 
uncanny things in an old, old house like this at midnight ; ” 
she thought ; “ But somehow I don’t believe there are any 
ghosts here. At any rate, not unpleasant ones; — only dear 
and loving e home 9 ghosts, who will do me no harm ! 99 

She soon sank into a restful slumber, and the moonlight 
poured in through the old latticed windows, forming a delicate 
tracery of silver across the faded rose silken coverlet of the 
bed, and showing the fair face, half in light, half in shade, that 
rested against the pillow, with the unbound hair scattered 
loosely on either side of it, like a white lily between two leaves 
of gold. And as the hours wore on, and the silence grew 
more intense, the slow and somewhat rusty pendulum of the 
clock in the tower could just be heard faintly ticking its way 
on towards the figures of the dawn. “ Give all — take nothing 
— Give — all — take — no — thing ! 99 it seemed to say ; — the motto 
of love and the code of chivalry, according to Maryllia. 


X 


A thin silver-grey mist floating delicately above the river 
Best and dispersing itself in light wreaths across the 
flowering banks and fields, announced the breaking of. the 
dawn, — and John Walden, who had passed a restless night, 
threw open his bedroom window widely, with a sense of relief 
that at last the time had come again for movement and action. 
His blood was warm and tingling with suppressed excitement, 
— he was ready for a fight, and felt disposed to enjoy it. His 
message to Miss Vancourt had apparently failed, — for on the 
previous evening Bainton had sent round word to say that he 
had been unable to see the lady before dinner, but that he was 
going to try again later on. No result of this second attempt 
had been forthcoming, so Walden concluded that his gardener 
had received a possibly curt and complete rebuff from the new 
‘ Squire-ess/ and had been too much disheartened by his fail- 
ure to come and report it. 

“ Never mind ! — we’ll have a tussle for the trees ! ” said 
John to himself, as after his cold tubbing he swung his 
dumb-bells to and fro with the athletic lightness and grace of 
long practice; “If the villagers are prepared to contest 
Leach’s right to destroy the Five Sisters, I’ll back them up in 
it! I will! And I’ll speak my mind to Miss Vancourt too! 
She is no doubt as apathetic and indifferent to sentiment as 
all her ‘set,’ but if I can prick her through her pachyder- 
matous society skin, I’ll do it ! ” 

Having got himself into a great heat and glow with this 
mental resolve and his physical exertions combined, he hastily 
donned his clothes, took his stoutest walking-stick, and sallied 
forth into the cool dim air of the as yet undeclared morning, 
the faithful Nebbie accompanying him. Scarcely, however, 
had he shut his garden gate behind him when Bainton con- 
fronted him. 

“ Mamin’, Passon ! ” 

“Oh, there you are!” said Walden — “Well, now what’s 
going to be done ? ” 

“ Nothin’s goin’ to be done ; ” rejoined Bainton stolidly, 
146 


God’s Good Man 


147 


with his usual inscrutable smile; “Unless m’appen Spruce 
is ’avin’ every bone broke in his body ’fore we gets there. Ye 
see, he ain’t got no written orders like, — and mebbe Leach ’ull 
tell him he’s a liar and that Miss Vancourt’s instructions is 
all my eye ! ” 

“Miss Vancourt’s instructions?” echoed Walden; “Has 
she given any ? ” 

“ Of coorse she has ! ” replied Bainton, triumphantly ; 
“ Which is that the trees is not to be touched on no account. 
And she’s told Spruce, through me, — which I bellowed it all 
into his ear, — to go and meet Leach this marnin’ up by the 
Five Sisters and give him ’er message straight from the 
shoulder ! ” 

Walden’s face cleared and brightened visibly. 

“ I’m glad — I’m very glad ! ” he said ; “ I hardly thought 

she could sanction such an outrage but, tell me, how did 

you manage to give her my message?” 

“ ’Twom’t your message at all, Passon, don’t you think it ! ” 
said Bainton; “You ain’t got so fur as that. She’s not the 
sort o’ lady to take a message from no one, whether passon, 
pope or emp’rur. Not she! It was old Josey Letherbarrow 
as done it.” And he related the incidents of the past evening 
in a style peculiar to himself, laying considerable weight on 
his own remarkable intelligence and foresight in having 
secured the 4 oldest ’n’abitant ’ of the village to act as repre- 
sentative and ambassador for the majority. 

Walden listened with keen interest. 

“Yes, — Leach is likely to be quarrelsome,” he said, at it3 
conclusion ; “ There’s no doubt about that. We mustn’t leave 
Spruce to bear the brunt of his black rage all alone. Come 
along, Bainton! — I will enforce Miss Vancourt’s orders myself 
if necessary.” 

This was just what Bainton wanted, — and master and man 
started off at a swinging pace for the scene of action, Bainton 
pouring forth as he went a glowing description of the wonder- 
ful and unexpected charm of the new mistress of the Manor. 

“ There ain’t been nothin’ like her in our neighbourhood iver 
at all, so fur as I can remember,” he declared. “A’ coorse I 
must ha’ seed her when I worked for th’ owld Squire at whiles, 
but she was a child then, an’ I ain’t a good hand at rememberin’ 
like Josey be, besides I never takes much ’count of childern 
runnin’ round. But ’ere was we all a-thinkin’ she’d be a ’igh 
an’ mighty fashion-plate, and she ain’t nothin’ of the sort, onny 
jest like a little sugar figure on a weddin’-cake wot looks sweet 


God’s Good Man 


148 

at ye and smiles pleasant, — though she’s got a flash in them 
eyes of her which minds me of a pony wot ain’t altogether broke 
in. Josey, he sez them eyes is a-goin’ to finish up Leach, — 
which mebbe they will and mebbe they won’t; — all the same 
they’s eyes you w r on’t see twice in a lifetime! Lord love ye, 
Passon, ain’t it strange ’ow the Almighty puts eyes in the ’eads 
of women wot ain’t a bit like wot he puts in the ’eads of men ! 
We gets the sight all right, but somehow we misses the beauty. 
An’ there’s plenty of women wot has eyes correct in stock and 
colour, as we sez of the flowers, — but they’re like p’ison berries, 
shinin’ an’ black an’ false-like, — an’ if ye touch ’em ye’re a dead 
man. Howsomever when ye sees eyes like them that was smilin’ 
at old Josey last night, why it’s jest a wonderful thing; and it 
don’t make me s’prised no more at the Penny Poltry-books wot’s 
got such a lot about blue eyes in ’em. Blue’s the colour — • 
there’s no doubt about it; — there ain’t no eye to beat a blue 
one!” 

Walden heard all this disjointed talk with a certain im- 
patience. Swinging along at a rapid stride, and glad in a 
sense that the old trees were to be saved, he was nevertheless 
conscious of annoyance, — though by whom, or at what he was 
annoyed, he could not have told. Plunging into the dewy 
woods, with all the pungent odours of moss and violets about 
his feet, he walked swiftly on, Bainton having some difficulty 
to keep up with him. The wakening birds were beginning to 
pipe their earliest carols; gorgeously-winged insects, shaken 
by the passing of human footsteps from their slumbers in the 
cups of flowers, soared into the air like jewels suddenly 
loosened from the floating robes of Aurora, — and the gentle 
stir of rousing life sent a pulsing wave through the long 
grass. Every now and again Bainton glanced up at the 
‘ Passon’s ’ face and murmured under his breath, — ‘ Blue’s the 
colour — there ain’t nowt to beat it ! ’ possibly inspired thereto 
by the very decided blue sparkle in the eyes of the 4 man of 
God ’ who was marching steadily along in the ‘ Onward 
Christian Soldiers’ style, with his shoulders well back, his 
head well poised, and his whole bearing expressive of both 
decision and command. 

Out of the woods they passed into an open clearing, where 
the meadows, tenderly green and wet with dew, sloped up- 
wards into small hillocks, sinking again into deep dingles, 
adorned with may-trees that were showing their white buds 
like little pellets of snow among the green, and where numer- 
ous clusters of blackthorn spread out lovely lavish tangles of 


God’s Good Man 


149 


blossom as fine as shreds of bleached wool or thread-lace upon 
its jet-like stems. Across these fields dotted with opening 
buttercups and daisies, Walden and his ‘head man about the 
place’ made quick way, and climbing the highest portion of 
the rising ground just in front of them, arrived at a wide 
stretch of peaceful pastoral landscape comprising a fine view 
of the river in all its devious windings through fields and 
pastures, overhung at many corners with ancient willows, and 
clasping the village of St. Rest round about as with a girdle 
of silver and blue. Here on a slight eminence stood the vener- 
able sentinels of the fair scene, — the glorious old ‘Five Sis- 
ters’ beeches which on this very morning had been doomed 
to bid farewell for ever to the kind sky. Noble creatures were 
they in their splendid girth and broadly-stretching branches, 
which were now all alive with the palest and prettiest young 
green, — and as Walden sprang up the thyme-scented turfy 
ascent which lifted them proudly above all their compeers, his 
heart beat with mingled indignation and gladness, — indigna- 
tion that such grand creations of a bountiful Providence 
should ever have been so much as threatened with annihila- 
tion by a destructive, ill-conditioned human pigmy like Oliver 
Leach, — and gladness, that at the last moment their safety 
was assured through the intervention of old Josey Lether- 
barrow. For, of course Miss Yancourt herseli would never 
have troubled about them. Walden made himself inwardly 
positive on that score. She could have no particular care or 
taste for trees, John thought. It was the pathetic pleading 
of Josey, — his quaint appearance, his extreme age — and his 
touching feebleness, which taken all together had softened the 
callous heart of the mistress of the Manor, and had persuaded 
her to stay the intended outrage. 

“If Josey had asked her to spare a gooseberry bush, she 
would probably have consented,” said Walden to himself; 
“ He is so old and frail, — she could hardly have refused his 
appeal without seeming to be almost inhuman.” 

Here his reflections were abruptly terminated by a clamour 
of angry voices, and hastening his steps up the knoll, he there 
confronted a group of rough rustic lads gathered in a defen- 
sive half-circle round Spruce who, white and breathless, was 
bleeding profusely from a deep cut across his forehead. Op- 
posite him stood Oliver Leach, livid with rage, grasping a 
heavy dog-whip. 

“You damned, deaf liar!” he shouted; “Do you think I’m 
going to take your word ? How dare you disobey my orders ! 


150 


God’s Good Man 


I’ll have you kicked off the place, you and your loud-tongued 
wife and the whole kit of you ! What d’ye mean by bringing 
these louts up from the village to bull-bait me, eh? What d’ye 
mean by it? I’ll have you all locked up in Riversford jail 
before the day’s much older ! You whining cur ! ” And he 
raised his whip threateningly. “I’ve given you one, and I’ll 
give you another ” 

“ Noa, ye woan’t ! ” said a huge, raw-boned lad, standing 
out from the rest. “ You woan’t strike ’im no more, if ye 
wants a hull skin! Me an’ my mates ’ull take care o’ that! 
You go whoam. Mister Leach ! — you go whoam ! — you’ve ’eerd 
plain as the trees is to be left stannin’ — them’s the orders of 
the new Missis, — and you ain’t no call to be swearin’ yerself 
black in the face, ’cos you can’t get yer own way for once. 
You’re none so prutty lookin’ that we woan’t know W to 
make ye a bit pruttier if ye stays ’ere enny longer ! ” 

And he grinned suggestively, doubling a portentous fist, 
and beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves slowly with an 
ominous air of business. 

Leach looked at the group of threatening faces, and pulled 
from his pocket a notebook and pencil. 

“I know you all, and I shall take down your names,” he 
said, with vindictive sharpness, though his lips trembled — 
“You, Spruce, are under my authority, and you have de- 
liberately disobeyed my orders ” 

“And you, Leach, are under Miss Yancourt’s authority and 
you are deliberately refusing to obey your employer’s orders ! ” 
said Walden, suddenly emerging from the shadow cast by one 
of the great trees, “ And you have assaulted and wounded 
Spruce who brought you those orders. Shame on you, man! 
Riversford jail is more likely to receive you as a tenant than 
any of these lads ! ” Here he turned to the young men who 
on seeing their minister had somewhat sheepishly retreated, 
lifting their caps and trampling backward on each other’s toes ; 
“Go home, boys,” he said peremptorily, yet kindly; “There’s 
nothing for you to do here. Go home to your breakfasts and 

your work. The trees won’t be touched •” 

“ Oh, won’t they ! ” sneered Leach, now perfectly white with 
passion; “Who’s going to pay me for the breaking of my 
contract, I should like to know ? The trees are sold — they were 
sold as they stand a fortnight ago, — and down they come to- 
day, orders or no orders; I’ll have my own men up here at 
work in less than an hour ! ” 

Walden turned upon him. 


God’s Good Man 


I5i 

“ Very well then, I shall ask Miss Vancourt to set the 
police to watch her trees and take you into custody ; ” he said,, 
coolly; “If you have sold the trees standing, to cover your 
gambling debts, you will have to wnsell them, that’s all ! They 
never were yours to dispose of;— you can no more sell them 
than you can sell the Manor. You have no permission to 
make money for yourself out of other people’s property. That 
kind of thing is common thieving, though it may sometimes 
pass for Estate Agency business ! ” 

Leach sprang forward, his whip uplifted, — but before it 
could fall, with one unanimous yell, the young rustics rushed 
upon him and wrested it from his hand. At this moment 
Bainton, who had been silently binding Spruce’s cut forehead 
with a red cotton handkerchief, so that the poor man pre- 
sented the appearance of a melodramatic ‘ stage ’ warrior, 
suddenly looked up, uttered an exclamation, and gave a 
warning signal. 

“ Better not go on wi’ the hargyment jes’ now, Passon I n 
he said, — “ ’Ere comes the humpire ! ” 

Even as he spoke, the quick gallop of hoofs echoed thud- 
dingly on the velvety turf, and the group of disputants hastily 
scattered to right and left, as a magnificent mare, wild-eyed 
and glossy-coated, dashed into their centre and came to a 
swift halt, drawn up in an instant by the touch of her rider on 
the rein. All eyes were turned to the slight woman’s figure in 
the saddle, that sat so easily, that swayed the reins so lightly, 
and that seemed as it were, throned high above them in 
queenly superiority — a figure wholly unconventional, clad in a 
riding-skirt and jacket of a deep soft violet hue, and wearing 
no hat to shield the bright hair from the fresh wind that waved 
its fair ripples to and fro caressingly and tossed a shining curl 
loose from the carelessly twisted braid. Murmurs of ‘ The 
new Missis ! ’ c Th’ owld Squire’s darter ! ’ — ran from mouth 
to mouth, and John Walden, seized by a sudden embarrass- 
ment, withdrew as far as possible into the shadow of the trees 
in a kind of nervous hope to escape from the young lady’s 
decidedly haughty glance, which swept like a flash of light, 
round the assembled group and settled at last with chill 
scrutiny on the livid and breathless Oliver Leach. 

“ You are the agent here, I presume ? ” 

Maryllia’s voice rang cold and clear, — there was not a 
trace of the sweet and coaxing tone in it that had warmed the 
heart of old Josey Letherbarrow. 

Leach looked up, lifting his cap half reluctantly. 


152 


God’s Good Man 


“I am!” 

“ You have had my orders ? ” 

Leach was silent. The young rustics hustled one another 
forward, moved by strong excitement, all eager to see the 
feminine 6 Humpire ’ who had descended upon them as 
suddenly as a vision falling from the skies, and all wondering 
what would happen next. 

“ You have had my orders ? ” repeated Mary Ilia ; — then, as 
no answer was vouchsafed to her, she looked round and 
perceived Bainton. To him she at once addressed herself. 

“ Who has struck Spruce ? ” 

Bainton hesitated. It was an exceedingly awkward position. 
He looked appealingly, as was his wont, up into the air and 
among the highest branches of the 4 Five Sisters ’ for ‘Passon 
Walden/ but naturally could not discover him at that 
elevation. 

“ Come, come ! ” said Maryllia, imperatively — “ You are 
not all deaf, I hope ! Give me a straight answer, one of you ! 
Who struck Spruce ? ” 

“ Mister Leach did ! ” said the big-boned lad who had 
constituted himself Spruce’s defender. “We ’eerd down in 
the village as ’ow you’d come ’ome. Miss, and as ’ow you’d 
give your orders that the Five Sisters was to be left stannin’, 
and we coomed up wi’ Spruce to see ’ow Leach ’ud take it, an’ 
’fore we could say a wurrd Leach he up wi’ his whip and cut 
Spruce across the for’ead as ye see ” 

Maryllia raised her hand and silenced him with a gesture. 

“ Thank you ! That will do. I understand ! ” She turned 
towards Leach ; “ What have you to say for yourself ? ” 

“ I take no orders from a servant,” replied Leach, insolently ; 
"I have managed this estate for ten years, and I give in 
my statements and receive my instructions from the firm of 
solicitors who have it in charge. I am not called upon to 
accept any different arrangement without proper notice.” 

Maryllia heard him out with coldly attentive patience. 

“ You will accept a different arrangement without any fur- 
ther notice at all,” she said ; “You will leave the premises and 
resign all management of my property from this day hence- 
forward. I dismiss you, for disobedience and insolence, and 
for assaulting my servant, Spruce, in the execution of his duty. 
And as for these trees, if any man touches a bough of one 
of them without my permission, I will have him prosecuted* 
Now you know my mind ! ” 

She sat proudly erect in her saddle, while the village hobble- 


God’s Good Man 


153 


dehoys who had instinctively gathered round her, like steel 
shavings round a magnet, fairly gasped for breath. Oliver 
Leach dismissed! Oliver Leach, the petty tyrant, the carping, 
snarling jack-in-office, cast out like a handful of bad rubbish! 
It was like a thunderbolt fallen from heaven and riving the 
earth on which they stood ! Bainton heard, and could scarcely 
keep back a chuckle of satisfaction. He longed to make 
Spruce understand what was going on, but that unfortunate 
individual was slightly stunned by Leach’s heavy blow, and 
sitting on the grass with his head between his two hands, was 
gazing, in a kind of stupefaction at the ‘ new Missis 9 ; so that 
any 1 bellowing ’ into his ear was scarcely possible. 

Leach himself stared blankly and incredulously, — his face 
crimsoned with a sudden rush of enraged blood and then paled 
again, and changing his former insolent tone for one both 
fawning and propitiatory, he stammered out: 

“I am very sorry — I — I beg your pardon. Madam! — 
if you will give yourself a little time to consider, you will 
see I have done my duty on this property all the time I 
have been connected with it. I hope you will not dismiss 
me for the first fault ! — I — I — admit I should not have 
struck Spruce, — but — I — I was taken by surprise — I — I know 
my business, — and I am not accustomed to be interfered 
with — ” Here his pent-up anger got the better of him and 
he again began to bluster. “I have done my duty — no man 
better ! ” he said in fierce accents. “ There’s not an acre of 
woodland here that isn’t in a better condition than it was ten 
years ago — Ah ! — and bringing in more money too ! — and 
nc»w I am to be turned off for a parcel of village idiots who 
hardly know a beech from an elm! I’ll make a case of it! 
Sir Morton Pippitt knows me — I’ll speak to Sir Morton 
Pippitt ” 

“ Sir Morton Pippitt ! 99 echoed Maryllia disdainfully ; 
“What has he to do with me or my property?” Here she 
suddenly spied Walden, who, in his eagerness to hear every 
word that passed had, unconsciously to himself, moved well out 
of the sheltering shadow of the trees — “Are you Sir Morton 
Pippitt ? 99 

A broad grin, deepening into a scarcely suppressed titter, 
went the round of the gaping young rustics. Walden himself 
smiled, — and recognising that the time had now come to 
declare himself, he advanced a step or two and lifted his hat. 

“I have not that pleasure! I am the minister of this par- 
ish, and my name is John Walden. I’m afraid I am rather a 


54 


God’s Good Man 


trespasser here! — but I have loved these old trees for many 
years, and I came up this morning, — having heard what your 
orders were from my gardener Bainton, — to see that those 
orders were properly carried out, — and also to save possible 
disturbance ” 

He broke off, Maryllia, while he spoke, had eyed him some- 
what critically, and now favoured him with a charming smile. 

“ Thank you very much ! ” she said sweetly ; “ It was most 
kind of you! I wonder — ” And she paused, knitting her 
pretty brows in perplexity ; “ I wonder if you could get rid of 
everybody for me ? ” 

He glanced up at her in a little wonderment. 

“ Could you ? ” she repeated. 

He drew nearer. 

“ Get rid of everybody ? — you mean ? ” 

She leaned confidentially from her saddle. 

“Yes — you know! Send them all about their business I 
Clergymen can always do that, can’t they? There’s really 
nothing more to be said or done — the trees shall not be 
touched, — the matter is finished. Tell all these big boys to go 
away — and — oh, you know ! ” 

A twinkle of merriment danced in Walden’s eyes. But 
he turned quite a set and serious face round on the magnet- 
ised lads of the village, who hung about, loth to lose a single 
glance or a single word of the wonderful ‘ Missis ’ who had 
the audacious courage to dismiss Leach. 

“Now, boys!” he said peremptorily; “Clear away home 
and begin your day’s work! You’re not wanted here any 
longer. The trees are safe, — and you can tell everyone what 
Miss Yancourt says about them. Bainton! You take these 
fellows home, — Spruce had better go with you. Just call at 
the doctor’s on the way and get his wound attended to. Come 
now, boys ! — sharp’s the word ! ” 

A general scrambling movement followed this brief exor- 
dium. With shy awkwardness each young fellow lifted his 
cap as he shambled sheepishly past Maryllia, who acknowl- 
edged these salutes smilingly, — Bainton assisted Spruce to 
rise to his feet, and then took him off under his personal 
escort, — and only Leach remained, convulsively gripping his 
dog-whip which he had picked up from the ground where the 
lads had thrown it, — and anon striking it against his boot 
with a movement of impatience and irritation. 

" Good-morning, Mr. Leach! ” said Walden pointedly. But 
Leach stood still, looking askance at Maryllia. 


God’s Good Man 155 

“Miss Vancourt,” he said, hoarsely; “Am 1 to understand 
that you meant what you said just now ? ” 

She glanced at him coldly. 

“ That I dismiss you from my service ? Of course I meant 
it 1 Of course I mean it ! ” 

“ I am bound to have fair notice,” he muttered. “ I cannot 
collect all my accounts in a moment ” 

“Whatever else you may do, you will leave this place at 
once;” said Maryllia, firmly, — “I will communicate my de- 
cision to the solicitors and they will settle with you. No more 
words, please ! ” 

* She turned her mare slowly round on the grassy knoll, look- 
ing up meanwhile at the lovely canopy of tremulous young 
green above her head. John Walden watched her. So did 
Oliver Leach, — and with a sudden oath, rapped out like a dis- 
cordant bomb bursting in the still air, he exclaimed savagely: 

“ You shall repent this, my fine lady ! By God, you shall ! 
You shall rue the day you ever saw Abbot’s Manor again! 
You had far better have stayed with your rich Yankee rela- 
tions than have made such a home-coming as this for yourself, 
and such an outgoing for me ! My curse on you ! ” 

Shaking his fist threateningly at her, he sprang down the 
knoll, and plunging through the grass and fern was soon lost 
to sight. 

The soft colour in Maryllia’s cheeks paled a little and a 
slight tremor ran through her frame. She looked at Walden, 
— then laughed carelessly. 

“ Guess I’ve given him fits ! ” she said, relapsing into one of 
her Aunt Emily’s American colloquialisms, with happy uncon- 
sciousness that this particular phrase coming from her pretty 
lips sent a kind of shock through John’s sensitive nerves. 
“He’s not a very pleasant man to meet anyway! And it 
isn’t altogether agreeable to be cursed on the first morning 
of my return home. But, after all, it doesn’t matter much 
as there’s a clergyman present ! ” And her blue eyes 
danced mischievously; “Isn’t it lucky you came? You can 
stop that curse on its way and send it back like a homing 
pigeon, can’t you? What do you say when you do it? 1 Retro 
me Sathanas / or something of that kind, isn’t it? Whatever 
it is, say it now, won’t you ? ” 

Walden laughed, — he could not help laughing. She spoke 
with such a whimsical flippancy, and she looked so bewitch- 
ingly pretty. 

“Really, Miss Vancourt, I don’t think I need utter any 


God’s Good Man 


156 

special formula on this occasion,” he said, gaily. “You 
have done a good action to the whole community by dismiss- 
ing Leach. Good actions bring their own reward, while 
curses, like chickens, come home to roost. Pray forgive me 
for quoting copybook maxims! But, for the curse of one 
ill-conditioned boor, you will have the thanks and blessings of 
all your tenantry. That will take the edge off the malediction ; 
don’t you think so ? ” 

She turned her mare in the homeward direction, and began 
to guide it gently down the slope. Walking by her side, 
John held back one of the vast leafy boughs of the great 
trees to allow her to pass more easily, and glanced up at her 
smilingly as he put his question. 

She met his eyes with an open frankness that somewhat 
disconcerted him. 

“ Well, I don’t know about that ! ” she replied. “ You 
see, in these days of telepathy and hypnotic suggestion, there 
may be something very catching about a curse. It’s just 
like a little seed of disease; — if it falls on the right soil it 
germinates and spreads, and then all manner of wicked souls 
get the infection. I believe that in the old days everybody 
guessed this instinctively, without being able to express it 
scientifically, — and that’s why they ran to the Church for pro- 
tection against curses, and the evil eye, and things of that 
sort. See how some of the old Scottish curses cling even 
to this day! The only way to take the sting out of a curse 
is to get it transposed ” — and she smiled, glancing meditatively 
up into the brightening blue of the sky. “ Like a song, you 
know! If it’s too low for the voice you transpose it to a 
higher key. I daresay the Church was able to do that in 
the days when it had real faith oh ! — I beg your pardon ! 

I ought not to say that to a man of your calling.” 

“Why not?” said Walden; “Pray say anything you like 
to me, Miss Vancourt; — I should be a very poor and un- 
satisfactory sort of creature if I could not bear any criticism 
on my vocation. Besides, I quite agree with you. The early 
Church had certainly more faith than it has now.” 

“You’re not a bit like a parson,” said Maryllia gravely, 
studying his face with embarrassing candour and closeness; 
“ You look quite a nice pleasant sort of man.” 

John Walden laughed again, — this time with sincere 
heartiness. Maryllia’s eyes twinkled, and little dimples came 
and went round her mouth and chin. 

“You seem amused at that,” she said; “But I’ve seen a 


God’s Good Man 


15 ? 


great deal of life — and I have met heaps and heaps of parsons 
— parsons young and parsons old — and they were all horrid, 
simply horrid! Some talked Bible — and others talked the 
Sporting Times — any amount of them talked the drama, and 
played .villains in private theatricals. I never met but one 
real minister , — that is a man who ministers to the poor, — and 
he died in a' London slum before he was thirty. I believe 
he was a saint; and if he had lived in the days of the early 
Church he would certainly have been canonised. He would 
have been Saint William — his name was William. But he 
was only one William, — I’ve seen hundreds of them.” 
“Hundreds of Williams?” queried Walden suggestively. 
This time it was Maryllia who laughed, — a gay little laugh 
like that of a child. 

“ Ho, I guess not ! ” she answered ; “ Some of them are 
real Johnnies! Oh dear me! ” — and again her laughter broke 
forth ; “ I quite forgot ! You said your name was John ! ” 

“ So it is.” And he smiled ; “ I’m sorry you don’t like it ! ” 
She checked her merriment abruptly, and became suddenly 
serious. 

“But I do like it! You mustn’t think I don’t. Oh, how 
rude I must seem to you! Please forgive me! I really da 
like the name of John!” 

He glanced up at her, still smiling. 

“ Thank you ! It’s very kind of you to say so ! ” 

“ You believe me, don’t you ? ” she said persistently. 

“ Of course I do ! Of course I must ! Though unhappily 
a Churchman, I am not altogether a heretic ! ” 

The smile deepened in his eyes, — and as she met his some- 
what quizzical glance a slight wave of colour rose to her 
cheeks and brow. She drew herself up in her saddle with a 
sudden proud movement and carried her little head a trifle 
higher. Walden looked at her now as he would have looked 
at a charming picture, without the least embarrassment. She 
appeared so extremely young to him. She awakened in his 
mind a feeling of kindly paternal interest, such as he might 
have felt for Susie Prescott or Ipsie Frost. He was not even 
quite sure that he considered her in any way out of the common 
so far as her beauty was concerned, — though he recognised 
that she was almost the living image of 1 the lady in the vi’let 
velvet’ whose portrait adorned the gallery in Abbot’s Manor. 
The resemblance was heightened by the violet colour of the 
riding dress she wore and the absence of any head-covering 
save her own pretty brown-gold hair. 


God’s Good Man 


158 

“ I’m glad I’ve saved the old trees,” she said presently, 
checking her mare’s pace, and looking back at the Five Sisters 
standing in unmolested grandeur on their grassy throne. “ I 
feel a pleasant consciousness of having done something useful. 
They are beautiful! I haven’t looked at them half enough. 
I shall come here all by myself this afternoon and bring a 
book and read under their lovely boughs. Just now I’ve 
only had time to cry ‘rescue.’” She hesitated a moment, 
then added: “I’m very much obliged to you for your assist- 
ance, Mr. Walden! — and I’m glad you also like the trees. 
They shall never be touched in my lifetime, I assure you! — 
and I believe — yes, I believe I’ll put something in my last 
will and testament about them — something binding, you 
know! Something that will set up a block in the way of 
land agents. Such trees as these ought to stand as long as 
Nature will allow them.” 

Walden was silent. Somehow her tone had changed from 
kind playfulness to ordinary formality, and her eyes rested 
upon him with a cool, slightly depreciatory expression. The 
mare was restless, and pawed the green turf impatiently. 

‘ r She longs for a gallop;” said Mary Ilia, patting the 
fine creature’s glossy neck; “Don’t you, Cleo? Her name 
is Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. Isn’t she a beauty ? ” 

“She is indeed!” murmured Walden, with conventional 
politeness, though he scarcely glanced at the eulogised 
animal. 

“ She isn’t a bit safe, you know,” continued Maryllia ; “ No- 
body can hold her but me! She’s a perfectly magnificent 
hunter. I have another one who is gentleness itself, called' 
Daffodil. My groom rides her. He could never ride Cleo.” 
She paused, patting the mare’s neck again, — then gathering 
up the reins in her small, loosely-gloved hand, she said: 
“ Well, good-morning, Mr. Walden! It was most kind of you 
to get up so early and come to help defend my trees! I am 
ever so grateful to you ! Pray call and see me at the Manor 
when you have nothing better to do. You will be very 
welcome ! ” 

She nodded gracefully to him, and a few loose curls of 
lovely hair fell with the action like a web of sunbeams over 
her brow. Smiling, she tossed them back. 

“ Good-bye ! ” she called. 

He raised his hat, — and in another moment the gallop of 
Cleopatra’s swift hoofs thudded across the grass and echoed 
over the fields, gradually diminishing and dying away, as mare 


God’s Good Man 


159 


and rider disappeared within the enfolding green of the Manor 
woods. He stood for a while looking after the vanishing 
flash of violet, brown and gold, scudding over the turf and 
disappearing under the closely twisted boughs of budding oak 
and elm, — and then started to walk home himself. His face 
was a study of curiously mingled expressions. Surprise, 
amusement, and a touch of admiration struggled for the 
mastery in his mind, and he was compelled to admit to 
himself, albeit reluctantly, that the doubtfully-anticipated 
* Squire-ess ’ was by no means the sort of person he had 
expected to see. Herein he was at one with Bainton. 

“ ‘ Like a little sugar figure on a wedding-cake, looking 
sweet, and smiling pleasant !’” thought Walden, humorously 
recalling his gardener’s description ; “ Scarcely that ! She 
has a will of her own, and — possibly — a temper ! A kind of 
spoilt child-woman, I should imagine; just the person to 
wear all the fripperies Mrs. Spruce was so anxious about the 
other day, and quite frivolous enough to squeeze her feet into 
shoes a couple of sizes too small for her. Beautiful? No, — 
her features are not regular enough for actual beauty. Pretty ? 
Well, — perhaps she is! — in a certain sense, — but I’m no 
judge. Fascinating? Possibly she might be — to some men. 
She certainly has a sweet voice, and a very charming manner. 
And I don’t think she is likely to he disagreeable or dis- 
courteous. But there is nothing remarkable about her — she’s 
just a woman — with a bright smile, — and a touch of American 
vivacity running through her English insularity. Just a 
woman — with a way ! ” 

And he strode on, his terrier trotting soberly at his heels. 
But he was on the whole glad he had met the lady of the 
Manor, because now he no longer felt any uneasiness con- 
cerning her. Plis curiosity was satisfied, — his instinctive dis- 
like of her had changed to a kindly toleration, and his some- 
what morbid interest in her arrival had quite abated. The 
‘Five Sisters 9 were saved — that was a good thing; and as for 
Miss Yancourt herself, — well! — she was evidently a harmless 
creature who would most likely play tennis and croquet all 
day and take very little interest in anything except herself. 

u She will not interfere with me, nor I with her,” said 
Walden with a sigh of satisfaction and relief; ‘‘And though 
we live in the same village, we shall be as far apart as the 
poles, — which is a great comfort. 1 ” 


XI 


•JITeanwhile, Maryllia cantered home through the woods 
complacent and lively humour. The first few hours 
of her return to the home of her forefathers had certainly 
not been lacking in interest and excitement. She had 
heard and granted a village appeal, — she had stopped an 
act of vandalism, — she had saved five of the noblest trees in 
England, — she had conquered the hearts of several village 
yokels, — she had thrust a tyrant out of office, — she had been 
cursed by the said tyrant, a circumstance which was, to say 
the very least of it, quite new to her experience and almost 
dramatic, — and, — she had ‘made eyes’ at a parson! Surely 
this was enough adventure for one morning, especially as it 
was not yet eight o’clock. The whole day had yet to come; 
possibly she might be involved later on in still more thrilling 
and sensational episodes, — who could 'tell ! She carolled a 
song for pure gaiety of heart, and told the rustling leaves and 
opening flowers in very charmingly pronounced Erench that 

“Votre coeur a beau se dgfendre 
De s’enflammer, — 

Le moment vient, il faut se rendre, 

II faut aimer! ” 

Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,, curveted and pranced daintily 
at every check imposed on her rein, as became an equine 
royalty, — she was conscious of the elastic turf under her hoofs, 
and glad pf the fresh pure air in her nostrils, — and her mistress 
shared with her the sense of freedom and buoyancy which an 
open country and fair landscape must naturally inspire in 
those to whom life is a daily and abounding vigorous delight, 
not a mere sickly brooding over the past, or a morbid anticipa- 
tion of the future. The woods surrounding Abbot’s Manor 
were by no means depressing, — they were not dark silent vistas 
of solemn pine, leading into deeper and deeper gloom, but 
cheery and picturesque clumps of elm and beech and oak, 
broken at constant intervals with hazel-copse, hawthorn and 

160 


God’s Good Man 


161 


eglantine, — true English woods, suggestive of delicate romance 
and poesy, and made magical by the songs of birds, whose 
silver-throated melodies are never heard to sweeter advantage 
than under the leafy boughs of such unspoilt green lanes and 
dells as yet remain to make the charm and glamour of rural 
England. Primroses peeped out in smiling clusters from every 
mossy nook, and the pale purple of a myriad violets spread a 
wave of soft colour among the last year’s fallen leaves, which 
had served good purpose in keeping the tender buds warm till 
Spring should lift them from their earth-cradles into full- 
grown blossom. Maryllia’s bright eyes, glancing here and 
there, saw and noted a thousand beauties at every turn, — the 
chains of social convention and ordinance had fallen from 
her soul, and a joyous pulse of freedom quickened her blood 
and sent it dancing through her veins in currents of new 
exhilaration and vitality. With her multi-millionaire aunt, 
she had lived a life of artificial constraint, against which, 
despite its worldly brilliancy, her inmost and best instincts 
had always more or less rebelled ; — now, — finding herself alone, 
as it were, with Mother Nature, she sprang like a child to that 
great maternal bosom, and nestled there with a sense of glad 
refreshment and peace. 

“ What dear wildflowers ! 99 she murmured now, as restrain- 
ing Cleopatra’s coquettish gambols, she rode more slowly along, 
and spied the bluebells standing up among tangles of green, 
making exquisite contrast with the golden glow of aconites 
and the fragile white of wood-anemones, — •“ They are ever so 
much prettier than the hot-house things one gets any day in 
Paris and London! Big forced roses, — great lolling, sickly- 
scented lilies, and orchids — oh dear ! how tired I am of orchids ! 
Every evening a bouquet of orchids for five weeks — Sundays 
not excepted, — shall I ever forget the detestable ‘rare speci- 
mens 9 ! ” 

A little frown puckered her brow, and for a moment the 
lines of her pretty mouth drooped and pouted with a quaintly 
petulant expression, like that of a child going to cry. 

“ It was complete persecution ! ” she went on, crooning her 
complaints to herself and patting Cleopatra’s arched neck by 
way of accompaniment to her thoughts — “Absolute dodging 
and spying round corners after the style of a police detective. 
I just hate a lover who makes his love, if it is love, into a 
kind of whip to fiog your poor soul with! Roxmouth here, 
Roxmouth there, Roxmouth everywhere ! — he was just like the 
water in the Ancient Mariner 1 and not a drop to drink.’ At 


God’s Good Mafi 


162 


the play, at the Opera, in the picture-galleries, at the races, at 
the flower-shows, at all the ‘ crushes ’ and big functions, — in 
London, in Paris, in New York, in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, 
« — always 1 ce cher Boxmouth ’ — as Aunt Emily said money 
no consideration, distance no object, — always ‘ ce cher Box- 
mouth/ stiff as a poker, clean as fresh paint, and apparently 
as virtuous as an old maid, — with all his aristocratic family 
looming behind him, and a long ancestry of ghosts in the 
shadow of time, extending away back to some Saxon ‘ nobles,’ 
who no doubt were coarse barbarians that ate more raw meat 
than was good for them, and had to be carried to bed dead 
drunk on mead! It is so absurd to boast of one’s ancestry! 
If we could only just see the dreadful men who began all the 
great families, we should be perfectly ashamed of them ! 
Most of them tore up their food with their fingers. Now we 
Vancourts are supposed to be descended from a warrior bold, 
named Bobert Priaulx de Vaignecourt, who fought in the 
Crusades. Poor Uncle Ered used to be so proud of that! 
He was always talking about it, especially when we were in 
America. He liked to try and make the Pilgrim-Father- 
families jealous. Just as he used to boast that if he had only 
been born three minutes before my father, instead of three 
minutes after, he would have been the owner of Abbot’s 
Manor. That three minutes’ delay and consideration he took 
about coming into the world made him the youngest twin, 
and cut off his chances. And he told me that Bobert the 
Crusader had a brother named Osmond, who was believed to 
have founded a monastery somewhere in this neighbourhood, 
and who died, so the story goes, during a pilgrimage to the 
Holy Land, though there’s no authentic trace left of either 
Osmond or Bobert anywhere. They might, of course, have 
been very decent and agreeable men, — but it’s rather doubt- 
ful. If Osmond went on a pilgrimage he would never have 
washed himself, to begin with, — it would have destroyed his 
sanctity. And as for Bobert the warrior bold, he would have 
been dreadfully fierce and hairy, — and I’m quite sure I could 
not possibly have asked him to dinner ! ” 

She laughed at her own fancies, and guided her mare under 
a drooping canopy of early-flowering wild acacia, just for the 
sheer pleasure of springing lightly up in her saddle to pull off 
a tuft of scented white blossom. 

“ The fact is,” she continued half aloud, 11 there’s nobody 1 
can ask to dinner even now as it is. Not down here. The 
local descriptions of Sir Morton Pippitt do not tempt me to 


God’s Good Man 


163 


make his acquaintance, and as for the parson I met just now, 
— why he would be impossible ! — simply impossible ! ” she re- 
peated with emphasis — “ I can see exactly what he’s like at 
a glance. One of those cold, quiet, clever men who 4 quiz 9 
women and never admire them, — I know the kind of horrid 
University creature! A sort of superior, touch-me-not-person 
who can barely tolerate a woman’s presence in the room, and 
in his heart of hearts relegates the female sex generally to the 
lowest class of the animal creation. I can read it all in his 
face. He’s rather good-looking — not very, — his hair curls 
quite nicely, but it’s getting grey, and so is his moustache, — • 
he must be at least fifty, I should think. He has a good 

figure — for a clergyman; — and his eyes no, I’m not sure 

that I like his eyes — I believe they’re deceitful. I must look 
at them again before I make up my mind. But I know he’s 
just as conceited and disagreeable as most parsons — he prob- 
ably thinks that he helps to turn this world and the next 
round on his little finger, — and I daresay he tells the poor 
village folk here that if they don’t obey him, they’ll go to hell, 
and if they do, they’ll fly straight to heaven and put on golden 
crowns at once. Dear me ! What a ridiculous state of things ! 
Fancy the dear old man in the smock who came to see me 
last night, with a pair of wings and a crown ! ” 

Laughing again, she flicked Cleopatra’s neck with the reins, 
and started off at an easy swinging gallop, turning out of the 
woods into the carriage drive, and never checking her pace till 
she reached the house. 

All that day she gave marked evidence that her reign as 
mistress of Abbot’s Manor had begun in earnest. Changing 
her riding dress for a sober little tailor-made frock of home- 
spun, she flitted busily over the old house of her ancestors, 
visiting it in every part, peering into shadowy corners, open- 
ing antique presses and cupboards, finding out the secret of 
sliding panels in the Jacobean oak that covered the walls, and 
leaving no room unsearched. The apartment in which her 
father’s body had lain in its coffin was solemnly unlocked and 
disclosed to her view under the title of ‘the Ghost Boom,’ — 
whereat she was sorrowfully indignant, — so much so indeed 
that Mrs. Spruce shivered in her shoes, pricked by the sting 
of a guilty conscience, for, if the truth be told, it was to Mrs. 
Spruce’s own too-talkative tongue that this offending name 
owed its origin. Quietly entering the peaceful chamber with 
its harmless and almost holy air of beautiful, darkened calm, 
Maryllia drew up the blinds, threw back the curtains, and 


164 


God’s Good Man 


opened the latticed windows wide, admitting a flood of sun- 
shine and sweet air. 

“ It must never be called ‘ the Ghost Room ’ again,” — she 
said, with a reproachful gravity, which greatly disconcerted 
and overawed Mrs. Spruce — “ otherwise it will have an evil 
reputation which it does not deserve. There is nothing 
ghostly or terrifying about it. It is a sacred room, — sacred 
to the memory of one of the dearest and best of men! It is 
wrong to let such a room be considered as haunted, — I shall 
sleep in it myself sometimes, — and I shall make it bright 
and pretty for visitors when they come. I would put a little 
child to sleep in it, — for my father was a good man, and 
nothing evil can ever be associated with him. Death is only 
dreadful to the ignorant and the wicked.” 

Mrs. Spruce wisely held her peace, and dutifully followed 
her new mistress to the morning-room, where she had to 
undergo what might be called quite a stiff examination re- 
garding all the household and housekeeping matters. Armed 
with a fascinating little velvet-bound notebook and pencil, 
Maryllia put down all the names of the different servants, 
both indoor and outdoor (making a small private mark of her 
own against those who had served her father in any capacity, 
and those who were just new to the place), together with the 
amount of wages due every month to each, — she counted over 
all the fine house linen, much of which had been purchased 
for her mother’s home-coming and had never been used; — she 
examined with all a connoisseur’s admiration the almost price- 
less old china with which the Manor shelves, dressers and 
cupboards were crowded, — and finally after luncheon and an 
hour’s deep cogitation by herself in the library, she wrote out 
in a round clerkly hand certain ‘ rules and regulations,’ for 
the daily routine of her household, and handed the document 
to Mrs. Spruce, — much to that estimable dame’s perturbation 
and astonishment. 

“ These are my hours, Spruce,” she said — “ And it will of 
course be your business to see that the work is done punctually 
and with proper method. There must be no waste or ex- 
travagance, — and you will bring me all the accounts every 
week, as I won’t have bills running up longer than that period. 
I shall leave all the ordering in of provisions to you, — if iti 
ever happens that you send something to table which I don’t 1 
like, I will tell you, and the mistake need not occur again. 
Now is there anything else?” — and she paused meditatively, 
finger on lip, knitting her brows — “You see I’ve never done 


God’s Good Man 


165 

any housekeeping, but I’ve always had notions as to how I 
should do it if I ever got the chance to try, and I’m just 
beginning. I believe in method, — and I like everything that 
has a place to be in in its place, and everything that has a 
time, to come up to its time. It saves ever so much worry and 
trouble! Now let me think! — oh yes! — I knew there was an- 
other matter. Please let the gardeners and outdoor men gen- 
erally know that if they want to speak to me, they can always 
see me from ten to half-past every morning. And, by the 
way. Spruce, tell the maids to go about their work quietly, — 
there is nothing more objectionable than a noise and fuss in 
the house just because a room is being swept and turned out. 
I simply hate it ! In the event of any quarrels or complaints, 

please refer them to me and and •” Here she 

paused again with a smile — “Yes! I think that’s all — for 
the present! I haven’t yet gone through the library or the 
picture-gallery; — however those rooms have nothing to do 
with the ordinary daily housekeeping, — if I find anything 
wanting to be done there, I’ll send for you again. But that’s 
about all now ! ” 

Poor Mrs. Spruce curtseyed deferentially and tremulously. 
She was not going to have it all her own way as she had 
fondly imagined when she first saw the apparently child-like 
personality of her new lady. The child-like personality was 
merely the rose-flesh covering of a somewhat determined 
character. 

“ And anything I can do for you, Spruce, or for your hus- 
band,” continued Maryllia, dropping her business-like tone 
for one of as coaxing a sweetness as ever Shakespeare’s J uliet 
practised for the persuasion of her too tardy Nurse — “ will be 
done with ever so much pleasure! You know that, don’t 
you?” And she laid her pretty little hands on the worthy 
woman’s portly shoulders — “You shall go out whenever you 
like — after work, of course! — duty first, pleasure second! — 
and you shall even grumble, if you feel like it, — and have your 
little naps when the midday meal is done with, — Aunt Emily’s 
housekeeper in London used to have them, and she snored 
dreadfully! the second footman — quite a nice lad — used to 
tickle her nose with a straw! But I can’t afford to keep a 
second footman — one is quite enough, — or a coachman, or a 
carriage; — besides, I would always rather ride than drive,— 
and my groom, Bennett, will only want a stable-boy to help 
him with Cleo and Daffodil. So I hope there’ll be no one 
downstairs to tease you, Spruce dear, by tickling your nose 


1 66 


God’s Good Man 


with a straw ! Primmins looks much too staid and respectable 
to think of such a thing.” 

She laughed merrily, — and Mrs. Spruce for the life of her 
could not help laughing too. The picture of Primmins con- 
descending to indulge in a game of ‘nose and straw ’ was 
too grotesque to be considered with gravity. 

“ Well I never. Miss! ” she ejaculated — “ You do put things 
that funny ! ” 

“Do I ? I’m so glad ! ” said Maryllia demurely — “ it’s nice 
to be funny to other people, even if you’re not funny to your- 
self! But I want you to understand from the first, Spruce, 
that everyone must feel happy and contented in my household. 
So if anything goes wrong, you must tell me, and I will try 
and set it right. Now I’m going for an hour’s walk with 
Plato, and when I come in, and have had my tea, I’ll visit 
the picture-gallery. I know all about it, — Uncle Fred told 
me,” — she paused, and her eyes darkened with a wistful and 
deepening gravity, — then she added gently — “ I shall not want 
you there, Spruce, — I must be quite alone.” 

Mrs. Spruce again curtseyed humbly, and was about to 
withdraw, when Maryllia called her back. 

“What about the clergyman here, Mr. Walden?” — she 
asked — “Is he a nice man? — kind to the village people, I 
mean, and good to the poor ? ” 

Mrs. Spruce gave a kind of ecstatic gasp, folded her fat 
hands tightly together in front of her voluminous apron, and 
launched forth straightway on her favourite theme. 

“ Mr. Walden is jest one of the finest men God ever made. 
Miss,” she said, with solemnity and unction — “ You may take 
my word for it! He’s that good, that as we often sez, if 
m’appen there ain’t no saint in the Sarky an’ nowt but dust, 
we’ve got a real live saint walkin’ free among us as is far more 
’spectable to look at in his plain coat an’ trousers than they 
monks an’ friars in the picter-books wi’ ropes around their 
waistses an’ bald crowns, which ain’t no sign to me o’ burn* 
full o’ grace, but rather loss of ’air, — an’ which you will pres- 
ently see yourself, Miss, as ’ow Mr. Walden’s done the church 
beautiful, like a dream, as all the visitors sez, which thcrre 
isn’t its like in all England — an’ he’s jest a father to the 
village an’ friends with every man, woman, an’ child in it, an’ 
grudges nothink to ’elp in cases deservin’, an’ works like a 
nigger, he do, for the school, which if he’d ’ad a wife it might 
a’ been better an’ it might a’ been worse, the Lord only knows, 
for no woman would a’ come up ’ere an’ stood that patient 
t 


God’s Good Man 


167 


watchin’ me an* my work, an’ I tell you truly, Miss Maryllia, 
that when your boxes came an’ I had to unpack ’em an’ sort 
the clothes in ’em, I sent for Passon Walden jest to show ’im 
that I felt my ’sponsibility, an’ he sez, sez he: ‘You go on 
doin’ your duty. Missis Spruce, an’ your lady will be all right ’ 
— an’ though I begged ’im to stop, he wouldn’t while I was 
a-shakin’ out your dresses with Nancy ” 

Here she was interrupted by a ringing peal of laughter from 
Maryllia, who, running up to her, put a little hand on her 
mouth. 

“ Stop, stop. Spruce ! ” she exclaimed — “ Oh dear, oh dear ! 
Do you think I can understand all this? Did you show the 
parson my clothes — actually? You did!” For Mrs. Spruce 
nodded violently in the affirmative. “ Good gracious ! What 
a perfectly dreadful thing to do ! ” And she laughed again. 
“ And what is the saint in the Sarky ? ” Here she removed 
her hand from the mouth she was guarding. “ Say it in one 
word, if you can, — what is the Sarky ? ” 

“ It’s in the church,” — said Mrs. Spruce, dauntlessly pro- 
ceeding with her flow of narrative, and encouraged thereto by 
the sparkling mirth in her mistress’s face — ■“ We calls it Sarky 
for short. Josey Letherbarrow, what reads, an’ ’as lamin’, 
calls it the Sarky Fagus, an’ my Kitty, she’s studied at the 
school, an’ she sez ‘ it’s Sar-KO-fagus, mother,’ which it may 
be or it mayn’t, for the schools don’t know more than the 
public-’ouses in my opinion, — leastways it’s a great long white 
coffin what’s supposed to ’ave the body of a saint inside it, an’ 
Mr. Walden he discovered it when he was rebuildin’ the 
church, an’ when the Bishop come to conskrate it, he sez ’twas 
a saint in there an’ that’s why the village is called St. Best — 
but you’ll find it all out yourself. Miss, an’ as I sez an’ I 
don’t care who ’ears me, the real saint ain’t in the Sarky at 
all, — it’s just Mr. Walden himself, ” 

Again Maryllia’s hand closed her mouth. 

“ You really must stop. Spruce ! You are the dearest old 
gabbler possible — but you must stop! You’ll have no breath 
left — and I shall have no patience! I’ve heard quite enough. 
I met Mr. Walden this morning, and I’m sure he isn’t a saint 
at all ! He’s a very ordinary person indeed, — most ordinary — 
not in the very least remarkable. I’m glad he’s good to the 
people, and that they like him — that’s really all that’s neces- 
sary, and it’s all I want to know. . Go along, Spruce ! — don’t 
talk to me any more about saints in the Sarky or out of the 


1 68 


God’s Good Man 


Sarky! There never was a real saint in the world — never!—* 
not in the shape of a man ! ” 

With laughter still dancing in her eyes, she turned away, 
and Mrs. Spruce, in full possession of restored nerve and 
vivacity, bustled off on her round of household duty, the tem- 
porary awe she had felt concerning the new written code of 
domestic 1 Kules and Eegulations ’ having somewhat subsided 
under the influence of her mistress’s gay good-humour. And 
Maryllia herself, putting on her hat, called Plato to her side, 
and started off for the village, resolved to make the church 
her first object of interest, in order to see the wondrous 
6 Sarky/ 

“ I never was so much entertained in my life ! ” she declared 
to herself, as she walked lightly along, — her huge dog bound- 
ing in front of her and anon returning to kiss her hand and 
announce by deep joyous barks his delight at finding himself 
at liberty in the open country — “ Spruce is a perfect comedy 
in herself, — ever so much better than a stage play! And then 
the quaint funny men who came to see me last night, — and 
those village boys this morning ! And the ‘ saintly ’ parson ! 
I’m sure he’ll turn out to be comic too, — in a way — he’ll be 
the ‘ heavy father’ of the piece! Eeally I never imagined I 
should have so much fun ! ” 

Here, spying a delicate pinnacle gleaming through the 
trees, she rightly concluded that it belonged to the church she 
intended to visit, and finding a footpath leading across the 
fields, she followed it. It was the same path which Walden 
had for so many years been accustomed to take in his constant 
walks to and from the Manor. It soon brought her to the 
highroad which ran through the village, and across this it was 
but a few steps to the gate of the churchyard. Laying one 
hand on her dog’s neck, she checked the great creature’s gam- 
bols and compelled him to walk sedately by her side, as with 
hushed footsteps she entered the * Sleepy Hollow’ of death’s 
long repose, and went straight up to the church door which, 
as usual, stood open. 

“ Stay here, Plato ! ” she whispered to her four-footed com- 
rade, who, understanding the mandate, lay down at once sub- 
missively in the porch to wait her pleasure. 

Entering the sacred shrine she stood still, — awed by its 
exquisite beauty and impressive simplicity. The deep silence, 
the glamour of the soft vari-coloured light that flowed through 
the lancet windows on either side, — the open purity of the 
nave, without any disfiguring pews or fixed seats to mar its 


God’s Good Man 


169 

clear space, — (for the chairs which were used at service were 
all packed away in a remote corner out of sight) — the fair, 
slender columns, springing up into flowering capitals, like the 
stems of palms breaking into leaf-coronals, — the dignified 
plainness of the altar, with that strange white sarcophagus set 
in front of it, — all these taken together, composed a picture 
of sweet sanctity and calm unlike anything she had ever seen 
before. Her emotional nature responded to the beautiful in 
all things, and this small perfectly designed House of Prayer, 
with its unknown saintly occupant at rest within its walls, 
touched her almost to tears. Stepping on tip-toe up to the 
altar-rails, she instinctively dropped on her knees, while she 
read all that could be seen of (the worn inscription on the 
sarcophagus from that side — ‘In Resurrectione — Sanctorum 
— Resurget.’ The atmosphere around her seemed surcharged 
with mystical suggestions, — a vague poetic sense of the super- 
human and divine moved her to a faint touch of fear, and 
made her heart beat more quickly than its wont. 

“ It is lovely — lovely ! ” she murmured under her breath, as 
she rose from her kneeling attitude — “ The whole church is a 
perfect gem of architecture ! I have never seen anything more 
beautiful in its way, — not even the Chapel of the Thorn at 
Pisa. And according to Mrs. Spruce’s account, the man I 
met this morning — the quizzical parson with the grey-brown 
curly-locks, did it all at his own expense — he must really 
be quite clever, — such an unusual thing for a country clergy- 
man ! ” 

She took another observant survey of the whole building, 
and then went out again into the churchyard. There she 
paused, her dog beside her, shading her eyes from the sun as 
she looked wistfully from right to left across the sadly sug- 
gestive little hillocks of mossy turf besprinkled with daisies, 
in search of an object which was as a landmark of disaster in 
her life. 

She saw it at last, and moved slowly towards it, — a plain 
white marble cross, rising from a smooth grassy eminence, 
where a rambling rose, carefully and even artistically trained, 
was just beginning to show pale creamy buds among its glossy 
dark green leaves. Great tears rose to her eyes and fell un- 
heeded, as she read the brief inscription — ‘ Sacred to the 
Memory of Robert Vancourt of Abbot’s Manor,’ this being 
followed by the usual dates of birth and death, and the one 
word ‘Resting.’ With tender touch Maryllia gathered one 
leaf from the climbing rose foliage, and kissing it amid her 


God’s Good Man 


170 

tears, turned away, unable to bear the thoughts and memories 
which began to crowd thickly upon her. Almost she seemed 
to hear her father’s deep mellow voice which had been the 
music of her childhood, playfully saying as was so often his 
wont: — “Well, my little girl! How goes the world with 
you ? ” Alas, the world had gone very ill with her for a long, 
long time after his death! Hers was too loving and pas- 
sionately clinging a nature to find easy consolation for such 
a loss. Her uncle Frederick, though indulgent to her and 
always kind, had never filled her father’s place, — her uncle 
Frederick’s American wife, had, in spite of much conscien- 
tious tutelage and chaperonage, altogether failed to win her 
affection or sympathy. The sorrowful sense that she was an 
orphan, all alone as it were with herself to face the mystery 
of life, never deserted her, — and it was perhaps in the most 
brilliant centres of society that this consciousness of isolation 
chiefly weighed upon her. She saw other girls around her 
with their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, — but she 
— she, by the very act of being born had caused her mother’s 
death, — and she well knew that her father’s heart, quietly as 
he had endured his grief to all outward appearances, had 
never healed of that agonising wound. 

“ I think I should never have come into the world at all,” — 
she said to herself with a sigh, as she returned over the fields 
to the Manor — “ I am no use to anybody, — I never have been 
of any use! Aunt Emily says all I have to do to show my 
sense of proper feeling and gratitude to her for her care of 
me is to marry — and marry well — marry Lord Roxmouth, in 
short — he will be a duke when his father dies, and Aunt 
Emily would like to have the satisfaction of leaving her mil- 
lions to enrich an English dukedom. Nothing could commend 
itself more favourably to her ideas — only it just happens my 
ideas won’t fit in the same groove. Oh dear! Why can’t I 
be ‘amenable’ and become a future duchess, and ‘build up’ 
the fortunes of a great family? I don’t know I’m sure, — • 
except that I don’t feel like it! Great families don’t appeal 
to me.. I shouldn’t care if there were none left. They are 
never interesting at the best of times, — perhaps out of several 
of them may come one clever man or woman, — and all the 
rest will be utter noodles. It isn’t worth while to marry Rox- 
mouth on such dubious grounds of possibility ! ” 

. Entering the Manor, she was conscious of some fatigue and 
listlessness, — a touch of depression weighed down her natu- 
rally bright spirits. She exchanged her home-spun walking 


God’s Good Man 


171 


dress for a tea-gown, and descended somewhat languidly to 
the morning-room where tea was served with more cere- 
moniousness than on the previous day, Primmins having taken 
command, with the assistance of the footman. Both men- 
servants stole respectful glances at their mistress, as she sat 
pensively alone at the open window, looking out on the ver- 
dant landscape that spread away from the terrace, in undula- 
tions of lawn, foliage and field to the last border of trees 
that closed in Abbot’s Manor grounds from the public high- 
way. Both would have said had they been asked, that she 
was much too pretty and delicate to be all alone in the great 
old house, with no companion of her own age to exchange 
ideas with by speech or glance, — and, with that masculine 
self-assurance which is common to all the lords of creation, 
whether they be emperors or household domestics, they would 
have opined that 1 she ought to be married.’ In which they 
would have entirely agreed with Maryllia’s ‘ dragon ’ Aunt 
Emily. But Maryllia’s own mind was far from being set on 
such themes as love and marriage. Her meditations were 
melancholy, and not unmixed with self-reproach. She blamed 
herself for having stayed away so long from her childhood’s 
home, and her father’s grave. 

“ I might have visited it at least once a year ! ” she thought 
with sharp compunction — “ I never really forgot, — why did I 
seem to forget?” 

The sun was sinking slowly in a glory of crimson and 
amber cloud, when, having resolved upon what she was going 
to do, she entered the picture-gallery. Softly she trod the 
polished floor, — with keen quick instinct and appreciative 
eyes, she noted the fine Vandyke portraits, — the exquisite 
Greuze that shone out, star-like, from a dark corner of the 
panelled walls, — and walking with measured pace she went 
straight up to the picture of ‘Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaigne- 
court’ — and gazed at it with friendly and familiar eyes. 

“ I know you quite well ! ” — she said, addressing the painted 
beauty — “ I have often dreamed about you since I left home !' 
I always admired you and wanted to be like you. I remember 
when I must have been about seven or eight years old, I ran 
in from a game in the garden one summer’s afternoon, and I 
knelt down in front of you and I said : ‘ Pray God make little 
Maryllia as pretty as big Mary Elia ! ’ And I think, — I really 
do think — though of course I’m not half or quarter as pretty, 
^’m just a little like you! Just a very, very little! For in- 
' tance my hair is the same colour — almost — and my eyes — no 1 


172 God’s Good Man 


I’m sure I haven’t such beautiful eyes as yours — I wish I 
had!” 

Her lovely ancestress appeared to smile, — if she could have 
spoken from the canvas that held her painted image she might 
have said: — “You have eyes that mirror the sunshine, — you 
have life, and I am dead, — your day is still with you — mine 
is done ! For me love and the world’s delight are ended, — and 
whither my phantom fairness has fled, who knows! But you 
are a vital breathing essence of beauty — be glad and rejoice 
in it while you may ! ” 

Some thought of this kind would have suggested itself to 
an imaginative beholder had such an one stood by to compare 
the picture with its almost twin living copy. Maryllia how- 
ever had a very small stock of vanity, — she was only pleasantly 
aware that she possessed a certain grace and fascination not 
common to the ordinary of her sex, but beyond that, she rated 
her personal charms at very slight value. The portrait of 
Mary Elia Adelgisa made her more seriously discontented 
with herself than ever, — and after closely studying the pic- 
turesque make of the violet velvet riding-dress which the fair 
one of Charles the Second’s day had worn, and deciding that 
she would have one 1 created 9 for her own adornment exactly 
like it, she turned towards the other end of the gallery. There 
hung that preciously guarded mysterious portrait of her dead 
mother, which she herself had never gazed upon, covered close 
with its dark green baize curtain, — a curtain no hand save 
her father’s had ever dared to raise. She remembered how 
often he had used to enter here all alone and lock the doors, 
remaining thus in sorrow and solitude many hours. She re- 
called her own childish fears when, by chance running in to 
look at the pictures for her own entertainment, or to play 
with her ball on a rainy day for the convenience of space 
and a lofty ceiling, she was suddenly checked and held in 
awe by the sight of that great gilded frame enshrining the, 
to her, unknown presentment of a veiled Personality. Her 
father alone was familiar with the face hidden behind that 
covering which he had put up with his own hands, — fastening 
it by means of a spring pulley, which in its turn was secured 
to the wall by lock and key. Ever since his death Maryllia 
had worn that key on a gold chain hidden in her bosom, and 
she drew it out now with a beating heart and many tremours 
of hesitation. The trailing folds of her pretty tea-gown, all 
of the filmiest old lace and ivory-hued cashmere, seemed tv' 
make an obtrusive noise as they softly swept the floor, — she 


God’s Good Man 173 

felt almost as though she were about to commit a sacrilege 

and break open a shrine, — yet 

“ I must see her ! ” she said, whisperingly — “ I shall not 
offend her memory. I have never done anything very wrong 
in my life, — if I had, I should have reason to be afraid — or 
ashamed, — and then of course wouldn’t dare to look at her. 
I have often been silly and frivolous and thoughtless, — but 
never spiteful or malicious, or really wicked. I could meet 
my father if he were here, just as frankly as if I were still a 
little girl, — and I think he would wish me to see his Dearest 
now ! His Dearest ! He always called her that I ” 

With the breath coming and going quickly through her 
parted lips, she stepped slowly and timidly up to that corner 
in the wall behind the picture, where the fastenings of the 
spring pulley were concealed, and fitted the key into the pad- 
lock which guarded it. The light of the setting sun threw 
a flame of glory aslant through the windows, and filled the 
gallery with a warm rush of living colour and radiance; and 
as she removed the padlock, and came to the front of the 
picture to pull the curtain-cord, she stood, unconsciously to 
herself, in a pure halo of gold, which intensified the brown 
and amber shades of her hair and the creamy folds of her 
gown, so that she resembled ‘ an angel newly drest, save wings, 
for heaven,’ such as one may see delineated on the illuminated 
page of some antique missal. Her hand trembled, as at the 
first touch on the pulley the curtain began to move, — inch by 
inch it ascended, showing pale glimmerings of white and rose, 
— still higher it moved, giving to the light a woman’s beauti- 
ful hand, so delicately painted as to seem almost living. The 
hand held a letter, and plainly on the half unfolded scroll 
could be read the words : 

/ • 

“ Thine till death, 

Robert Vancourt.” ^ 

Another touch, and the whole covering rolled up swiftly to its 
full height, — while Maryllia breathless with excitement and 
interest gazed with all her soul in her eyes at the exquisite, 
dreamy, poetic loveliness of the face disclosed. All the beauty 
of girlhood with the tenderness of womanhood, — all the visions 
of young romance, united to the fulfilled passion of the heart, 
— all the budding happiness of a radiant life, — all the promise 
of a perfect love ; — these were faithfully reflected in the purely 
moulded features, the dark blue caressing eyes, and the sweet 


174 


God’s Good Man 


mouth, which to Maryllia’s fervid imagination appeared to 
tremble plaintively with a sigh of longing for the joy of life 
that had been snatched away so soon. Arrayed in simplest 
white, with a rose at her breast, and her husband’s letter 
clasped in her hand, the fair form of the young bride that 
never came home gathered from the sunset-radiance an aspect 
of life, and seemed to float forth from the dark canvas like a 
holy spirit of beauty and blessing. Shadow and Substance — • 
dead mother and living child — these twain gazed on each 
other through cloud-veils of impenetrable mystery, — nor is it 
impossible to conceive that some intangible contact between 
them might, through the transference of a thought, a longing, 
a prayer, have been realised at that mystic moment. With a 
sudden cry of irresistible emotion Maryllia stretched out her 
arms, and dropping on her knees, broke out into a passion of 
tears. 

“ Oh mother, mother!” she sobbed — “ Oh darling mother I 
How I would have loved you ! ” 


xn 


TN such wise, under the silent benediction of the lost and 
A loving dead, the long-deserted old Manor received back 
the sole daughter of its ancestry to that protection which we 
understand, or did understand at one time in our history, as 
* Home.’ Home was once a safe and sacred institution in 
England. There seemed no likelihood of its ever being sup- 
planted by the public restaurant. That it has, in a great 
measure, been so supplanted, is no advantage to the country, 
and that many women, young and old, prefer to be seen in 
gregarious over-dressed hordes, taking their meals in Picca- 
dilly eating-houses, rather than essay the becoming grace of 
a simple and sincere hospitality to their friends in their own 
homes, is no evidence of their improved taste or good breed- 
ing. Abbot’s Manor was in every sense ‘Home 5 in the old 
English sense of the word. Its ancient walls, hallowed by 
long tradition, formed a peaceful and sweet harbour of rest 
for a woman’s life, — and the tranquil dignity of her old-world 
surroundings with all the legends and memories they awak- 
ened, soon had a beneficial effect on Maryllia’s impressionable 
temperament, which, under her aunt’s 6 social 9 influence, had 
been more or less chafed and uneasy. She began to feel at 
peace with herself and all the world, — while the relief she 
experienced at having deliberately severed herself by both 
word and act from the undesired attentions of a too-persistent 
and detested lover in the person of Lord Koxmouth, future 
Duke of Ormistonne, was as keen and pleasurable as that of 
a child who has run away from school. She was almost con- 
fident that the fact of her having thrown off her aunt’s pro- 
tection together with all hope of inheriting her aunt’s wealth, 
would be sufficient to keep him away from her for the future. 
“ For it is Aunt Emily’s money he wants — not me ; ” she said 
to herself — “ He doesn’t care a jot about me personally — any 
woman will do, provided she has the millions. And when he 
knows I’ve given up the millions, and don’t intend ever to 
have the millions, he’ll leave me alone. And he’ll go over 
to America in search of somebody else — some proud daughter 
of oil or pork or steel ! — and what a blessing that will be ! 99 

175 


God’s Good Man 


176 

Meanwhile, such brief excitement as had been caused in St 
Rest by the return of * th’ owld Squire’s gel ’ and by the 
almost simultaneous dismissal of Oliver Leach, had well-nigh 
abated. A new agent had been appointed, and though Leach 
had left the immediate vicinity, having employment on Sir 
Morton Pippitt’s lands, he had secured a cottage for himself 
in the small outlying hamlet of Badsworth. He also under- 
took some work for the Reverend * Putty ’ Leveson in assisting 
him to form an entomological collection for the private 
museum at Badsworth Hall. Mr. Leveson had a singular 
fellow-feeling for insects, — he studied their habits, and col- 
lected specimens of various kinds in bottles, or ‘ pinned ’ them 
on cardboard trays, — he was an interested observer of 
the sprightly manners practised by the harvest-bug, and 
the sagacious customs of the ruminating spider, — as well as the 
many surprising and agreeable talents developed by the com- 
mon flea. Leach’s virulent hatred of Maryllia Vancourt was 
not lessened by the apparently useful and soientific nature of 
the employment he had newly taken up under the guidance 
of his reverend instructor, — and whenever he caught a butter- 
fly and ran his murderous pin through its quivering body at 
Leveson’s bland command, he thought of her, and wished 
vindictively that she might perish as swiftly and utterly as 
the winged lover of the flowers. Every small bright thing in 
Nature’s garden that he slew and brought home as trophy, 
inspired him with the same secret fierce desire. The act of 
killing a beautiful or harmless creature gave him pleasure, 
and he did not disguise it from himself. The Reverend 
‘ Putty ’ was delighted with his aptitude, and with the many 
valuable additions he made to the c specimen’ cards and bot- 
tles, and the two became constant companions in their search 
for fresh victims among the blossoming hedgerows and fields. 
St. Rest, as a village, was only too glad to be rid of Leach’s 
long detested presence to care anything at all as to his further 
occupations or future career, — and only Bainton kept as he 
said ‘ an eye on him.’ 

Bainton was a somewhat curious personage, — talkative as 
he showed himself on most occasions, he was both shrewd and 
circumspect; no stone was more uncommunicative than he 
when he chose. In his heart he had set "Maryllia Vancourt 
as second to none save his own master, John Walden, — her 
beauty and grace, her firm action with regard to the rescue 
of the ‘ Five Sisters,’ and her quick dismissal of Oliver Leach, 
had all inspired him with the most unbounded admiration 


God’s Good Man 


177 


and respect, and he felt that he now had a double interest in 
life, — the ‘ Passon * — and the ‘ lady of the Manor/ But he 
found very little opportunity to talk about his new and cher- 
ished theme of Miss Vancourt and Miss Van court’s many 
attractions to Walden, — for John always ‘shut him up’ on 
the subject with quite a curt and peremptory decision when- 
ever he so much as mentioned her name. Which conduct on 
the part of one who was generally so willing to hear and 
patient to listen, somewhat surprised Bainton. 

“For,” he argued — “there ain’t much doin’ in the village, 
— we ain’t always ‘ on the go ’ — an’ when a pretty face comes 
among us, surely it’s worth looking at an’ pickin’ to pieces 
as ’twere. But Passon’s that sharp on me when I sez any 
little thing wot might be interestin’ about the lady, that I’m 
thinkin’ he’s got out o’ the habit o’ knowin’ when a face is a 
male or a female one, which is wot often happens to bachel- 
dors when they gits fixed like old shrubs in one pertikler spot 
o’ ground. Mow I should a’ said he’d a’ bin glad to ’ear of 
somethin’ new an’ oncommon as ’twere, — he likes it in the 
way o’ flowers, an’ why not in the way o’ wimmin? But 
Passon ain’t like other folk — he don’t git on with wimmin 
nohow — an’ the prettier they are the more he seems skeered 
off them.” 

But such opinions as Bainton entertained concerning his 
master, he kept to himself, and having once grasped the fact 
that any mention of Miss Vancourt’s ways or Miss Vancourt’s 
looks appeared to displease rather than to entertain the 
Keverend. John, he avoided the subject altogether. This 
course of action on his part, if the truth must be told, was 
equally annoying to Walden, who was in the curious mental 
condition of wishing to know what he declined to hear. 

For the rest, the village generally grew speedily accustomed 
to the presence of the mistress of the Manor. She had ful- 
filled her promise of paying a visit to Josey Letherbarrow, 
and had sat with the old man in his cottage, talking to him 
for the better part of two hours. Humour asserted that she 
had even put the kettle on the fire for him, and had made his 
tea. Josey himself was reticent, — and beyond the fact that 
he held up his head with more dignity, and showed a touch of 
more conscious superiority in his demeanour, he did not give 
himself away by condescending to narrate any word of the 
lengthy interview that had taken place between himself and 
‘th’ owld Squire’s little gel.’ One remarkable thing was 
noticed by the villagers and commented upon, — Miss Vancourt 


178 


God’s Good Man 


Lad now passed two Sundays in their midst, and had neves 
once attended church. Her servants were always there at 
morning service, but she herself was absent. This occasioned 
much whispering and head-shaking in the little community, 
and one evening the subject was openly discussed in the bar- 
room of the ‘ Mother Huif ’ by a group of rustic worthies 
whose knowledge of matters theological and political was, by 
themselves, considered profound. Mrs. Buggins had started 
the conversation, and Mrs. Buggins was well known to be a 
lady both pious and depressing. She presided over her hus- 
band’s 1 public ’ with an air of meek resignation, not unmixed 
with sorrowful protest, — she occasionally tasted the finer 
cordials in the bar-room, and was often moved to gentle tears 
at the excellence of their flavour, — she had a chronic c stitch 
in the side/ and a long smooth pale yellow countenance from 
which the thin grey hair was combed well back from the 
temples in the frankly unbecoming fashion affected by the 
provincial British matron. She begun her remarks by plain- 
tively opining that “ it was a very strange thing not to see 
Miss Vancourt at church on either of the Sundays that 
had passed sinee her return — very strange! Perhaps she was 
‘High’ ? Perhaps she had driven into Riversford to attend 
the ‘ processional 9 service of the Reverend Francis Anthony ? ” 

“Perhaps she ain’t done nothing of the sort!” — growled 
a thick-set burly farmer, who with a capacious mug of ale 
before him was sucking at his pipe with as much zeal as a 
baby at its bottle — “Ef you cares for my ’pinion, which, 
m’appen you doan’t, she’s neither Bow nor ’Igh. She’s no 
Seek. If she b’longed to a Seek, she wouldn’t be readin’ on 
a book under the Five Sisters last Sunday marnin’ when the 
bells was a-ringin’ for church time. I goes past ’er, an’ I 
sez ‘ Marnin/ mum!’ an’ she looks up smilin’-like, an’ sez 
she : ‘ Good-marnin l 9 Nice day, isn’t it? ’ e Splendid day, 
mum/ sez I, an’ she went on readin’, an’ I went on a walkin’. 
I sez then, and I sez now, she ain’t no Seek ! ” 

“Example,” sighed Mrs. Buggins, “is better than precept. 
It would be more decent if the lady showed herself in church 
as a lesson to others, — if she did so more lost sheep might 
follow!” 

“ Hor-hor-hor ! ” chuckled Bainton, from a corner of the 
room — “ Don’t you worrit yourself. Missis Buggins, ’bout no 
lost sheep! Sheep alius goes where there’s somethin’ to graze 
upon, — leastways that’s my ’speriemce, an’ if there ain’t no 
grazin’ there ain’t no sheep! An’ them as grazes on Passon 


God’s Good Man 


179 


Walden, gittin’ out of ’im all they can to ’elp ’em along, 
wouldn’t go to church, no more than Miss Yancourt do, if 
they didn’t know wot a man ’e is to be relied on in times o’ 
trouble, an’ a reg’lar ’usband to the parish in sickness an* 
in ’elth, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, till death 
do ’im part. Miss Yancourt don’t want nothin’ out of ’im 
as all we doos, an’ she kin show ’er independence ef she likes 
to by stayin’ away from church when she fancies, an’ readin’ 
books instead of ’earin’ sermons, — there ain’t no harm in 
that.” 

“I’m not so sure that I agree with you, Mr. Bainton,” — 
said a stout, oily-looking personage, named Netlips, the grocer 
and ‘ general store’ dealer of the village, a man who was 
renowned in the district for the profundity and point of his 
observations at electoral meetings, and for the entirely original 
manner in which he ‘used’ the English language; “Public 
worship is a necessary evil. It is a factor in vulgar civilisa- 
tions. Without it, the system of religious politics would fall 
into cohesion, — absolute cohesion ! ” And he rapped his fist 
on the table with a smartness that made his hearers jump. 
“ At the last meeting I addressed in this division, I said we 
must support the props. The aristocracy must bear them on 
their shoulders. If your Squire stays away from church, he 
may be called a heathen with propriety, though a Liberal. 
And why? Because he makes public exposure of himself as 
a heathen negative! He is bound to keep up the church 
factor in the community. Otherwise he runs straight aground 
on Cohesion.” 

This oratorical outburst on the part of Mr. Hetlips was 
listened to with respectful awe and admiration. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said Roger Buggins, who as ‘ mine host ’ stood 
in his shirt sleeves at the entrance of his bar, surveying his 
customers and mentally counting up their reckonings — “ Co- 
hesion would never do — cohesion government would send the 
country to pieces. You’re right, Mr. Netlips, — you’re right! 
Props must be kep’ up ! ” 

“ I don’t see no props in goin’ to church,” — said Dan Rid- 
ley, the little working tailor of the village — “I goes because 
I likes Mr. Walden, but if there was a man in the pulpit I 
didn’t like, I’d stop away. There’s a deal too many wolves in 
sheep’s clothing getting ordained in the service o’ the Lord, 
an’ I don’t blame Miss Yancourt if so be she takes time to 
find out the sort o’ man Mr. Walden is before settin’ under 
him as ’twere. She can say prayers an’ read ’em too in her 


i8o 


God’s Good Man 


own room, an* study the Bible all right without goin’ to 
church. Many folks as goes to church regular are downright 
mean lyin’ raskills — and don’t never read their Bibles at all. 
Mebbe they does as much harm as what Mr. Netlips calls 
Cohesion, though I don’t myself purfess to understand Gov- 
ernment language, it bein’ too deep for me.” 

Mr. Netlips smiled condescendingly, and nodded as one 
who should say — ‘You do well, my poor fellow, to be humble 
in my presence ! ’ — and buried his nose in his tankard of ale. 

“ Mebbe Cohesion’s got hold o’ my red cow ” — said the 
burly farmer who had spoken before — “For she’s as ailin’ as 
ever she was, an’ if I lose her, I loses a bit o’ my livin.’ An’ 
that’s what I sez an’ ’olds by, no church-goin’ seems to ’elp 
us in a bit o’ trouble, an’ it ain’t decent or Christian like, so 
it ’pears, to pray to the Almighty for the savin’ of a cow. 
I asked Passon Walden if ’twould be right, for the cow’s as 
valuable to me as ever my wife was when she was alive, if 
not more, an’ he sez quite pleasant-like — ‘Well no, Mister 
Thorpe, I think it best not to make any sort of special prayer 
for the poor beast, but just do all you can for it, and leave 
the rest to Providence. A cow is worldly goods, you see — and 
we’re not quite justified in praying to be allowed to keep our 
worldly goods.’ ‘ Ain’t we ? ’ I sez — ‘ Is that a fact ? He 
smiled and said it was. So I thanked him and corned away. 
But I’ve been thinkin’ it over since, an’ I sez to myself — ef 
we ain’t to pray for keepin’ an’ ’avin’ our worldly goods, wot 
’ave we got to pray for ? ” 

“ Oh Mr. Thorpe ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Buggins, almost tear- 
fully — “ It is not this world but the next, that we must think 
of! We must pray for our souls! ” 

“Well, marm, I ain’t got a ‘soul’ wot I knows on — an’ as 
for the next world, if there ain’t no cattle farmin’ there, I 
reckon I’ll be out o’ work. Do you count on keepin’ a bar 
in the ’eavenly country?” 

A loud guffaw went the round of the room, and Mrs. Bug- 
gins gasped with horror. 

“ Oh, Koger ! ” she murmured, addressing her portly spouse, 
who at once took up the argument. 

“ You goes too fur — you goes too fur. Mister Thorpe ! ” he 
said severely — “ There ain’t no keepin’ bars nor farmin’ car- 
ried on in the next world, nor marrying nor givin’ in mar- 
riage. We be all as the angels there.” 

“ A nice angel you’ll make too, Mr. Buggins ! ” said Farmer 


God’s Good Man 181 

Thorpe, as he sent his tankard to be refilled, — “Lord! We 
won’t know you ! ” 

Again the laugh went round, and Mrs. Buggins precipi- 
tately retired to her ‘ inner parlour ’ there to recover from the 
shock occasioned to her religious feelings by the irreverent 
remarks of her too matter-of-fact customer. Meanwhile Dan 
Kidley, the tailor, had again reverted to the subject of Miss 
Yancourt. 

“ There’s one thing about her cornin’ to church,” — he said ; 
“ If so be as she did come it ’ud do us all good, for she’s real 
pleasant to look at. I’ve seen her a many times in the 
village.” 

“ Ah, so have I ! ” chorussed two or three more men. 

“ She’s been in to see Adam Frost’s children an’ she gave 
Baby Hippolyta a bag o’ sweeties,” — said Bainton. “ An’ 
she’s called at the schoolhouse, but Miss Eden, she worn’t 
in an’ Susie Prescott saw her, an’ Susie was that struck that 
she ’adn’t a wurrd to say, so she tells us, an’ Miss Vancourt she 
went to old Josey Letherbarrow’s straight away an’ there 
she stayed iver so long. She ain’t called at our house yet.” 

“ Which ’ouse might you be a-meanin’, Tummas ? ” queried 
Farmer Thorpe, with a slow grin — “ Your own or your 
measter’s ? ” 

“ When we speaks in the plural we means not one, but 
two,” — rejoined Bainton with dignity. “ An’ when I sez ‘ our ’ 
I means myself an’ Passon, which Miss Yancourt ain’t as yetj 
left her card on Passon. He went up in a great ’urry one 
afternoon when he knowed she was out, — he knowed it, ’cos 
I told ’im as ’ow I’d seen her gallopin’ by on that mare of 
hers which they calls Cleopatra — an’ away ’e run like a March 
’are, an’ he ups to the Manor and down again, an’ sez he , 1 
laughin’ like : 1 I’ve done my dooty by the lady ’ sez he — ‘ I’ve 
left my card ! ’ That was three days ago, an’ there ain’t been 
no return o’ the perliteness up to the present ” 

Here he broke off and began to drink his ale, as a small 
dapper man entered the bar-room with a brisk step and called 
for 6 a glass of home-brewed,’ looking round on those assembled 
with a condescending smile. All of them knew him as Jim 
Bennett, Miss Yancourt’s groom. 

“ Well, mates ! ” he said with a sprightly air of familiarity — * 
“ All well and hearty ? ” 

“ As yourself, Mr. Bennett,” — replied Boger Buggins, act- 
ing as spokesman for the rest, and personally serving him with 


182 


God’s Good Man 


the foaming draught he had ordered. “ Which we likewise 
trusts your lady is well?” 

“ My lady enjoys the best of health, thank you ! ” said 
Bennett, with polite gravity. And tossing off the contents of 
his glass, he signified by an eloquent gesture and accompany* 
ing wink, that he was ‘good for another.’ 

“We was just a-sayin’ as you come in, Mr. Bennett,” ob- 
served Dan Ridley, “that we’d none of us seen your lady at 
church yet on Sundays. Mebbe she ain’t of our ‘ persuasion ’ 
as they sez, or mebbe she goes into Riversford, preferrin’ ’Igh 
services ” 

Bennett smiled a superior smile, and leaning easily against 
the bar, crossed his legs and surveyed the company generally 
with a compassionate air. 

“ I suppose it’s quite a business down here, — goin’ to church, 
eh ? ” he queried — •“ Sort of excitement like — only bit of fun 
you’ve got — helps to keep you all alive! That’s the country 
way, but Lord bless you ! — in town we’re not taking any ! ” 

Bainton looked up, — and Mr. Netlips loosened his collar 
and lifted his head, as though preparing himself for another 
flow of ‘ cohesion ’ eloquence. Farmer Thorpe turned his bull- 
neck slowly round, and brought his eyes to bear on the speaker. 

“ How d’ye make that out, Mr. Bennett ? ” he demanded. 
<£ Doan’t ye sarve the A’mighty same in town as in country ? ” 

“Not a bit of it!” replied Bennett airily — “You’re a long 
way behind the times, Mr. Thorpe! — you are indeed, beggin’ 
.your pardon for sayin’ so! The ‘best’ people have given up 
the Almighty altogether, owing to recent scientific discoveries. 
They’ve taken to the Almighty Dollar instead which no science 
can do away with. And Sundays aren’t used any more for 
church-going, except among the middle-class population, — 
they’re just Bridge days with our set — Bridge lunches. Bridge 
suppers, — every Sunday’s chock full of engagements to 
‘ Bridge,’ right through the ‘ season.’ ” 

“ That’s cards, ain’t it ? ” enquired Dan Ridley. 

“ Just so! Harmless cards ! ” rejoined Bennett — ■“ Only you 
can chuck away a few thousands or so on ’em if you like ! ” 

Mr. Netlips here pushed aside his emptied ale-glass and 
Taised his fat head unctuously out of his stiff shirt-collar. 

“ Are we to understand,” he began ponderously, “ that 
Miss Vancourt is addicted to this fashion of procrastinating 
the Lord’s Day ? ” 

Bennett straightened his dapper figure suddenly. 

“ Now don’t you put yourself out, Mr. Netlips, don’t, that’s 


God’s Good Man 


183 

a good feller ! ” lie said in sarcastically soothing tones— 
‘‘There's no elections going on just at present — when there 
is you can bring your best leg foremost, and rant away for all 
you're worth ! My lady don’t gamble, if that’s what you mean, 
— though she’s always with the swagger set, and likely so to 
remain. But you keep up your spirits! — your groceries ’ull 
be paid for all right! — she don’t run up no bills — so don’t 
you fear, cards or no cards! And as for procrastinating the 
Lord’s Day, whatever that may be, I could name to you the 
folks what does worse than play Bridge on Sundays. And 
who are they? Why the clergymen theirselves! And how 
does they do worse? Why by tellin’ lies as fast as they can 
stick! They says we’re all going to heaven if we’re good, — - 
and they don’t know nothing about it, — and we’re all going 
to hell if we’re bad, and they don’t know nothing about that 
neither! I tell you, as I told you at first, in town we’ve got 
beyond all that stuff — we’re just not taking any ! ” 

He paused, and there was a deep silence, while he drank 
off his second glass of ale. The thoughts of every man pres- 
ent were apparently too deep for words. 

“ You’re a smart chap ! ” said Bainton at last, breaking the 
mystic spell and rising to take his leave — “An’ I don’t want 
to argify with ye, for I ’spect you’re about right in what you 
sez about Sunday ways in town — but I tell ye what, young 
feller! — you’ve got to ’ave a deal o’ patience an’ a deal o’ 
pity for they poor starveling sinners wot gits boxed up in 
cities an’ never ain’t got no room to look at the sky, or see 
the wide fields with all the daisies blowin’ open to the sun. 
No wonder they’re so took up wi’ their scinetific muddlins 
over worms an’ microbes an’ sich-like, as to ’ave forgot what 
the Almighty is doin’ in the workin’ o’ the Universe, — but it’s 
onny jest like poor prisiners in a cell wot walks up an’ down, 
up an’ down, countin’ the stones in the wall with scinetific 
multiplication-like, an’ ’splainin’ to their poor lonely selves 
as how many stones makes a square foot, an’ so many square 
feet makes a square yard, an’ on they, goes a- walkin’ their 
mis’able little round an’ countin’ their mis’able little sums, an’ 
all the time just outside the prison the flowers is all bloomin’ 
wild an’ the birds singin’, an’ the blue sky over it all with 
God smilin’ behind it. That’s ’ow ’tis, Mr. Bennett ! ” and 
Bainton looked into the lining of his cap as was his wont 
before he put it on his head— “I believe all you say right 
enough, an’ it don’t put me out nohow — I’ve seen too much 
o’ natur to be shook off my ’old ©n the Almighty — for there’s 


God’s Good Man 


184 

no worm wot ain’t sure of a rose or some kind o’ flower an* 
fruit somewhere, though m’appen the poor blind thing don’t 
know where to find it. It’s case 0’ leadin’ on, an’ guidin’ 
beyond our knowledge, Mr. Bennett, — an’ that’s wot Passon 
Walden tells us. He don’t bother us wi’ no ‘ hows ’ nor ‘ whys ’ 
nor 1 wherefores ’ — he says we can feel God with us in our 
daily work, an’ so we can, if we’ve a mind to !/ Daily work and 
common things shows Him to us, — why look there ! ” — here 
he pulled from his pocket a small paper-bag, and opening it, 
showed some dry loose seed — “ There ain’t nothin’ commoner 
than that ! That’s pansy seed — a special stock too, — well now, 
if you didn’t know how common it is, wouldn’t it seem a 
miracle as wonderful as any in the Testymen, that out o’ that 
handful o’ dust like, the finest flowers of purple an’ yellow will 
come? — ay! some o’ them two to three inches across, an’ every 
petal like velvet an’ silk! If so be you don’t b’lieve in a God, 
Mr. Bennett, owin’ to town opinions, you try the gardenin’ 
business! That’ll make a man of ye! I alius sez if Adam 
had stuck to the gardenin’ business an’ left the tailorin’ trade 
alone we’d have all been in Eden now ! ” 

His eyes twinkled, as glancing round the company, he saw 
that his words had made an impression and awakened a re- 
sponsive smile — “ Good-night t’ye ! ” And touching Bennett 
on the shoulder in passing, he added : “ You come an’ see me, 
my lad, when you feels like goin’ a hit in the scinetific line! 
Mebbe I can tell ye a few pints wot the learned gentlemen 
in London don’t know. Anyway, a little church-goin’ under 
Passon Walden won’t do you no ’arm, nor your lady neither, 
if she’s what I takes her for, which is believin’ her to be all 
good as wimmin goes. An’ when Passon warms to his work 
an’ tells ye plain as ’ow everything’s ordained for the best, 
an’ as ’ow every flower’s a miracle of the Lord, an’ every bird’s 
song a bit o’ the Lord’s own special music, it ’eartens ye up 
an’ makes ye more ’opeful o’ your own poor mis’able self — it 
do reely now ! ” 

With another friendly pat on the groom’s shoulder, and a 
cheery smile, Bainton passed out, and left the rest of the 
company in the * Mother Hufl ’ tap-room solemnly gazing 
upon one another. 

. “ He speaks straight,, he do,” said Parmer Thorpe, “ An’ ho 
ain’t no canter, — he’s just plain Tummas, an’ wot he sez he 
means.” 

“ Here’s to his ’elth,— a game old boy ! ” said Bennett good- 
humouredly, ordering another glass of ale ; “ It’s quite a treat 


God’s Good Man 


185 


to meet a man like him, and I shan’t be above owning that 
he’s got a deal of right on his side. But what he says ain’t 
Orthodox Church teaching.” 

“ Mebbe not,” said Dan Ridley, “ but it’s Passon Walden’s 
teachin’, an’ if you ain’t ’eard Passon yet, Mister Bennett, I’d 
advise ye to go next Sunday. An’ if your lady ’ud make up 
her mind to go too just for once ” 

Bennett gave an expressive gesture. 

“ She won’t go — you may depend on that ! ” he said ; “ She’s 
had too much of parsons as it is. Why Mrs. Fred — that’s her 
American aunt — was regular pestered with ’em coming beggin’ 
of her for their churches and their windows and their schools 
and their infants and their poor, lame, blind, sick of all sorts, 
as well as for tlieirselves. D’rectly they knew she was a 
millionaire lady’ they ’adn’t got but one thought — how to get 
some of the millions out of her. There was three secretaries 
kept when we was in London, and they’d hardly time for bite 
nor sup with all the work they ’ad, refusin’ scores of churches 
and religious folks all together. Miss Maryllia’s got a com- 
plete scare o’ parsons. Whenever she see a shovel-hat coming 
she just flew! When she was in Paris it was the Catholics 
as wanted money — nuns, sisters of the poor, priests as ’ad 
been turned out by the Government, — and what not, — and out 
in America it was the Christian Scientists all the time with 
such a lot of tickets for lectures and fal-lals as you never saw, 
— then came the Spiritooalists with their seeances; and alto- 
gether the Vancourt family got to look on all sorts of religions 
merely as so many kinds of beggin’ boxes which if you 
dropped money into, you went straight to the Holy-holies, and if 
you didn’t you dropped down into the great big D’s. Ho! — 
I don’t think anyone need expect to see my lady at church — 
it’s the last place she’d ever think of going to ! ” 

This piece of information was received by his hearers with 
profound gravity. Ho one spoke, and during the uncomfort- 
able pause Bennett gave a careless i Good-night ! ’ — and took 
his departure. 

“ Things is come to a pretty pass in this ’ere country,” then 
said Mr. Hetlips grandiosely, “ when the woman who is merely 
the elevation of the man, exhibits in public a conviction to 
which her status is unfitted. If the lady who now possesses 
the Manor were under the submission of a husband, he would 
naturally assume the control which is governmental^ retali- 
ative and so compel her to include the religious considerations 
of the minority in her communicative system ! ” 


1 86 


God’s Good Man 


Farmer Thorpe looked impressed, but slightly puzzled. 

“You sez fine, Mr. Netlips, — you sez fine,” he observed 
respectfully. “Not that I altogether understands ye, but 
that’s onny my want of book-lamin’ and not spellin’ through 
the dictionary as I oughter when I was a youngster. How- 
somever I makes bold to guess wot you’re drivin’ at and I 
dessay you may be right. But I’m fair bound to own that if 
it worn’t for Mr. Walden, I shouldn’t be found in church o’ 
Sundays neither, but lyin’ flat on my back in a field wi’ my 
face turned up to the sun, a-thinkin’ of the goodness o’ God, 
and hopin’ He’d put a hand out to ’elp make the crops grow 
as they should do. Onny Passon he be a rare good man, and 
he do speak to the ’art of ye so wise-like and quiet, and that’s 
why I goes to hear him and sez the prayers wot’s writ for me 
to say and doos as he asks me to do. But if I’d been un* 
fort’nit enough to live in the parish of Badsworth under that 
old liar Leveson, I’d a put my fist in his jelly face ’fore I’d a 
listened to a word he had to say! Them’s my sentiments, 
mates! — and you can read ’em how you like, Mr. Netlips. 
God’s in heaven we know, — but there’s onny churches on 
earth, an’ we ’as to make sure whether there’s men or devils 
inside of ’em ’fore we goes kneelin’ and grubbin’ in front of 
’uman idols — Good-night t’ye ! ” 

With these somewhat disjointed remarks Parmer Thorpe 
strode out of the tap-room, whistling loudly to his dog as he 
reached the door. The heavy tramp of his departing feet 
echoed along the outside lane and died away, and Roger Bug- 
gins, glancing at the sheep-faced clock in the bar, opined that 
it was ‘ near closin’ hour.’ All the company rose and began 
to take their leave. 

“Church or no church. Miss Vancourt’s a real lady!” 
declared Han Ridley emphatically — “ She may have her 
reasons, an’ good ones too, for not attending service, but she 
ain’t no heathen, I’m sartin’ sure o’ that.” 

“You cannot argumentarially be sure of what you do not 
know,” said Mr. Netlips, with a tight smile, buttoning on his 
overcoat — “ A heathen is a proscription of the law, and cannot 
enjoy the rights of the commons.” 

Han stared. 

“ There ain’t no proscription of the law in stayin’ away 
from church,” he said — “ Nobody’s bound to go. Lords nor 
commons can’t compel us.” 

Mr. Netlips shook his head and frowned darkly, with the 
air of one who could unveil a great mystery if he chose. 


God’s Good Man 


187 


“ Compulsion is a legal community,” he said — “ And while 
powerless to bring affluence to the Christian conscience, it 
culminates in the citizenship of the heathen. Miss Yancourt, 
as her father’s daughter, should be represented by the bap- 
tized spirit, and not by the afflatus of the ungenerate ! Good- 
night ! ” 

Still puckering his brow into lines of mysterious suggestive- 
ness, the learned Netlips went his way, Roger Buggins gazing 
after him admiringly. 

“ That man’s reg’lar lost down ’ere,” — he observed — ■“ He 
oughter ha’ been in Parliament.” 

“ Ah, so he ought ! ” agreed Dan Ridley — ■“ Where’s there’s 
fog he’d a made it foggier, and where’s there’s no under- 
stand^’ he’d a made it less understandable. I daresay he’d 
a bin Prime Minister in no time — he’s just the sort. They 
likes a good old muddler for that work — someone as has the 
knack o’ addlin’ the people’s brains an’ makin’ them see a 
straight line as though ’twere crooked. It keeps things quiet 
an’ yet worrity-like — first up, then down — this way, then that 
way, an’ never nothin’ certain, but plenty o’ big words rantin’ 
round. That’s Netlips all over, — it’s in the shape of his ’ed, 
— he was born like it. I don’t like his style myself, — but he’d 
make a grand cab-nit minister!” 

“ Ay, so he would ! ” acquiesced Buggins, as he drew the 
little red curtains across the windows of the tap-room and 
extinguished the hanging lamp — “ Easy rest ye, Dan ! ” 

“ Same to you, Mr. Buggins ! ” responded the tailor cheer- 
fully, as he turned out into the cool sweet dimness of the 
hawthorn-hedged lane in which the ‘Mother Huff’ stood — 
“I make bold to say that church or no church, Miss Van- 
court’s bein’ at her own ’ouse ’ull be a gain an’ a blessing to 
the village.” 

“ Mebbe so,” returned Buggins laconically, — and closing 
his door he barred it across for the night, while Dan Ridley, 
full of the half-poetic, half philosophic thoughts which the 
subjects of religion and religious worship frequently excite in 
a more or less untutored rustic mind, trudged slowly home- 
ward. 

During these days, Maryllia herself, unconscious of the 
remarks passed upon her as the lady of the Manor by her 
village neighbours, had not been idle, nor had she suffered 
much from depression of spirits, though, socially speaking, 
she was having what she privately considered in her owm. 
mind ‘ rather a dull time.’ To begin with, everybody in the 


God’s Good Man 


1 88 

neighbourhood that was anybody in the neighbourhood, had 
called upon her, — and the antique oaken table in the great 
hall was littered with a snowy array of variously shaped bits 
of pasteboard, bearing names small and great, — names of old 
county families, — names of new mushroom gentry, — names 
of clergymen and their wives in profusion, and one or two 
modest cards with the plain ‘ Mr.’ of the only young bachelors 
anywhere near for fifteen miles round. Nearly every man had 
a wife — ■“ Such a pity ! ” commented Maryllia, when noting 
the fact — “ One can never ask any of them to dinner without 
their dragons ! ” 

Most of the callers had paid their ‘ duty visits ’ at a time 
of the afternoon when she was always out, — roaming over 
her own woods and fields, and ‘taking stock 9 as she said, of 
her own possessions, — but on one or two occasions she had 
been caught ‘ in/ and this was the case when Sir Morton 
Pippitt, accompanied by his daughter Tabitha, Mr. Julian 
Adderley, and Mr. Marius Longford were announced just at 
the apt and fitting hour of ‘ five-o’clock tea/ Rising from the 
chair where she had negligently thrown herself to read for a 
quiet half hour, she set aside her book, and received those 
important personages with the careless ease and amiable in- 
difference which was a ‘manner familiar’ to her, and which 
invariably succeeded in making less graceful persons than 
she was, feel wretchedly awkward and unhappy about the 
management of their hands and feet. With a smiling upward 
and downward glance, she mastered Sir Morton Pippitt’s 
‘ striking and jovial personality/ — his stiffly-carried upright 
form, large lower chest, close-shaven red face, and pleasantly 
clean white hair, — “ The very picture of a Bone-Melter ” — 
she thought — “ He looks as if he had been boiled all over 
himself — quite a nice well- washed old man/’ — her observant 
eyes flashed over the attenuated form of Julian Adderley with 
a sparkle of humour, — she noticed the careful carelessness of 
his attire, the artistic ‘ set 9 of his ruddy locks, the eccentric 
cut of his trousers, and the, to himself, peculiar knot of his 
tie. 

“ The poor thing wants to be something out of the common 
and can’t quite manage it,” she mentally decided, while she 
viewed with extreme disfavour the feline elegance affected 
by Mr. Marius Longford, and the sleek smile, practised by 
him ‘ for women only/ with which he blandly admitted her 
existence. To Miss Tabitha Pippit she offered a chair of 
capacious dimensions, amply provided with large down cush- 


God’s Good Man 


189 

Sons, inviting her to sit down in it with a gentleness which 
implied kindly consideration for her years and for the fatigue 
she might possibly experience as a result of the drive over 
from Badsworth Hall, — whereat the severe spinster’s chronic- 
ally red nose reddened more visibly, and between her thin 
lips she sharply enunciated her preference for ‘ a higher seat, 
— no cushions, thank you ! * Thereupon she selected the 
‘higher seat’ for herself, in the shape of an old-fashioned 
music-stool, without back or arm-rest, and sat stiffly upon it 
like a draper’s clothed dummy put up in a window for public 
inspection. Maryllia smiled, — she knew that kind of woman 
well; — and paying only the most casual attention to her for 
the rest of the time, returned to her own place by the open 
windows and began to dispense the tea, while Sir Morton Pip- 
pitt opened conversation by feigning to recall having met her 
some two or three years back. He was not altogether in the 
best of humours, the sight of his recently dismissed butler, 
Primmins, having upset his nerves. He knew how servants 
‘ talked.’ Who could tell what Primmins might not say in 
his new situation at Abbot’s Manor, of his former experiences 
at Badsworth Hall? And so it was with a somewhat heated 
countenance that Sir Morton endeavoured to allude to a 
former acquaintance with his hostess at a Foreign Office 
function. 

“ Oh no, I don’t think so,” said Maryllia, lazily dropping 
lumps of sugar into the tea-cups — “Do you take sugar? I 
ought to ask, I know, — such a number of men have the gout 
nowadays, and they take saccharine. I haven’t any sac- 
charine, — so sorry! You do like sugar, Mr. Adderley? How 
nice of you ! ” And she smiled. “ None for you, Mr. Long- 
ford? I thought not. You, Miss Pippitt? No! Everybody 
else, yes? That’s all right! The Foreign Office? I think not. 
Sir Morton, — I gave up going there long ago when I was 
quite young. My aunt, Mrs. Fred Yancourt, always went — 
you must have met her and taken her for me, I always hated 
a Foreign Office ‘crush.’ Such big receptions bore one ter- 
ribly — you never see anybody you really want to know, and 
the Prime Minister always looks tired to death. His face is 
a study in several agonies. Two or three years ago? Oh no, 
- — I don’t think I was in London at that time. And you were 
there, were you ? Beally ! ” 

She handed a cup of tea with a bewitching smile and a 
‘Will you kindly pass it?’ to Julian Adderley, who so im- 
petuously accepted the task she imposed upon him of acting 


God’s Good Man 


190 

as general waiter to the company, that in hastening towards 
her he caught his foot in the trailing laces of her gown and 
nearly fell over the tea-tray. 

“ A thousand pardons ! ” he murmured, righting himself 
with an effort — “ So clumsy of me!” 

“ Don’t mention it ! ” said Maryllia, placidly — “ Will you 
hand bread-and-butter to Miss Pippitt. Do you take hot cake. 
Sir Morton ? ” 

Sir Morton’s face had become considerably redder during 
this interval, and, as he spread his handkerchief out on one 
knee to receive the possible dribblings of tea from the cup 
he had begun to sip at somewhat noisily, he looked as he 
certainly felt, rather at a loss what next to say. He was not 
long in this state of indecision, however, for a bright idea 
occurred to him, causing a smile to spread among his loose 
cheek-wrinkles. 

“ I’m sorry my friend the Duke of Lumpton has left me,” 
he said with unctuous pomp. “ He would have been delighted 
- — er — delighted to call with me to-day ” 

“ Who is he ? ” enquired Maryllia, languidly. 

Again Sir Morton reddened, but managed to conceal his 
discomfiture in a fat laugh. 

“ Well, my dear lady, he is Lumpton ! — that is enough foi; 
him, and for most people ” 

“Really? — Oh — well — of course! — I suppose so!” inter- 
rupted Maryllia, with an expressive smile, which caused Miss 
Tabitha’s angular form, perched as it was on the high music- 
stool, to quiver with spite, and moved Miss Tabitha’s neatly 
gloved fingers to clench like a cat’s claws in their kid sheaths 
with an insane desire to scratch the fair face on which that 
smile was reflected. 

“He is a charming fellow, the Duke — charming — charm- 
ing ! ” went on Sir Morton, unconscious of the complex work- 
ings of thought in his elderly daughter’s acidulated brain! 
“And his great ‘chum,’ Lord Mawdenham, has also been 
staying with us — but they left Badsworth yesterday, I’m sorry 
to say. They travelled up to London with Lady Elizabeth 

Messing, who paid us a visit of two or three days ” 

# “ Lady Elizabeth Messing ! ” echoed Maryllia, with a sudden 
ripple of laughter — “Dear me! Did you have her staying 
with you ? How very nice of you ! She is such a terror ! ” 

Mr. Marius Longford stroked one of his pussy-cat whiskers 
thoughtfully, and put in his word. 

“Lady Elizabeth spoke of you. Miss Yancourt, several 


God’s Good Man 


IQi 

times,” he said. “In fact”— and he smiled— “she had a 
good deal to say ! She remembers meeting you in Paris, and 
— if I mistake not — also at Homburg on one occasion. She 
was surprised to hear you were coming to live in this dull 
country place — she said it would never suit you at all — you 
were altogether too brilliant— er— ” he bowed— “ and er— 
charming ! ” This complimentary phrase was spoken with the 
air of a beneficent paterfamilias giving a child a bon-bon. 

Maryllia’s glance swept over him carelessly. 

“ Much obliged to her, Fm sure ! ” she said — “ I can quite 
imagine the anxiety she felt concerning me ! So good of her ! 
Is she a great friend of yours ? 99 

Mr. Longford looked slightly disconcerted. 

“Well, no,” he replied — “I have only during these last 
few days — through Sir Morton — had the pleasure of her ac- 
quaintance ” 

“ Mr. Longford is nbt a c society 9 man ! 99 said Sir Morton, 
with a chuckle — “He lives on the heights of Parnassus — and 
looks down with scorn on the browsing sheep in the valleys 
below ! He is a great author ! 99 

“ Indeed ! ” and Maryllia raised her delicately arched eye- 
brows with a faint movement of polite surprise — “But all 
authors are great nowadays, aren’t they? There are no little 
ones left.” 

“Oh, yes, indeed, and alas, there are!” exclaimed Julian 
Adderley, flourishing his emptied tea-cup in the air before 
setting it back in its saucer and depositing the whole on a 
table before him; “I am one of them, Miss Yancourt! Pray 
be merciful to me ! ” 

The absurd attitude of appeal he assumed moved Maryllia 
to a laugh. 

“Well, when you look like that I guess I will!” she said 
playfully, not without a sense of liking for the quaint human 
creature who so willingly made himself ridiculous without 
being conscious of it — •“ What is your line in the small way ? 99 

“Verse!” he replied, with tragic emphasis — “Verse which 
nobody reads — verse which nobody wants — verse which when- 
ever it struggles into publication, my erudite friend here, Mr. 
Longford, batters into pulp with a sledge-hammer review of 
half-a-dozen lines in the heavier magazines. Verse, my dear 
Miss Vancourt! — verse written to please myself, though its 
results do not feed myself. But what matter! I am happy! 
This village of St. Rest, for example, has exercised a spell 
of enchantment over me. It has soothed my soul! So much 


192 


God's Good Man 


so, that I have taken a cottage in a wood — how melodious 
that sounds! — at the modest rent of a pound a week. That 
much I can afford, — that much I will risk — and on the air, 
the water, the nuts, the berries, the fruits, the flowers, I will 
live like a primaeval man, and let the baser world go by ! ” 
He ran his fingers through his long hair. “ It will be an 
experience ! So new — so fresh ! ” 

Miss Tabitha sniffed sarcastically, and gave a short, hard 
laugh. 

“ I hope you’ll enjoy yourself l 99 she said tartly — “ But you’ll 
soon tire. I told you at once when you said you had decided 
to spend the summer in this neighbourhood that you’d regret 
it. You’ll find it very dull.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think he will ! ” murmured Maryllia gra- 
ciously; “He will be writing poetry all the time, you see! 
Besides, with you and Sir Morton as neighbours, how can he 
feel dull? Won’t you have some more tea!” 

“No, thank you!” and Miss Pippitt rose, — “Bather, we 
must be going. You have not yet explained to Miss Vancourt 
the object of our visit.” 

“True, true!” and Sir Morton got out of his chair with 
some difficulty — “ Time flies fast in such fascinating com- 
pany!” and he smiled beamingly — “We came, my dear lady, 
to ask you to dine with us on Thursday next at Badsworth 
Hall.” No words could convey the pomposity which Sir 
Morton managed to infuse into this simple sentence. To dine 
at Badsworth was, or ought to be, according to his idea, the 
utmost height of human bliss and ambition. “We will invite 
some of our most distinguished neighbours to meet you, — 
there are a few of the old stock left — ” this as if he were of 
the ‘ old stock ’ himself ; — “ I knew your father — poor fellow ! 
• — and of course I remember seeing you as a child, though you 
don’t remember me — ha-ha ! — but I shall be delighted to wel- 
come you under my roof 

“Thanks so much!” said Maryllia, demurely — “But please 
let it be for another time, will you? I haven’t a single even- 
ing disengaged between this and the end of June! So sorry! 
I’ll come over to tea some day, with pleasure! I know Bads- 
worth. Dear old place! — quite famous too, once in the by- 
gone days — almost as famous as Abbot’s Manor itself. Let 
me see ! ” and she looked up at the ceiling musingly — “ There 
was a Badsworth who fought against the Commonwealth, — 
and there was another who was Prime Minister or some- 
thing of that kind, — then there was a Sir Thomas Badsworth 


God’s Good Man 


193 


who wrote books — and another who did some wonderful serv- 
ice for King James the First — yes, and there were some lovely 
women in the family, too — I suppose their portraits are all 
there ? Yes — I thought so ! ” — this as Sir Morton nodded a 
blandly possessive affirmative — “ How things change, don’t 
they? Poor old Badsworth! So funny to think you live 
there! Oh, yes! I’ll come over — certainly I’ll come over, — 
some day ! ” 

Thus murmuring polite platitudes, Maryllia bade her vis- 
itors adieu. Sir Morton conquered an inclination to gasp for 
breath and say 1 Damn ! ’ at the young lady’s careless refusal 
of his invitation to dinner, — Miss Tabitha secretly rejoiced. 

“ I’m sure I don’t want her at Badsworth,” she said within 
herself, viciously — “ Nasty little insolent conceited thing! I 
believe her hair is dyed, and her complexion put on! A 
regular play-actress ! ” 

Unconscious of the spinster’s amiable thoughts, Maryllia 
was holding out a hand to her. 

“ Good-bye ! ” she said — “ So kind of you to come and see 
me ! I’m sure you think I must be lonely here. But I’m not, 
really! I don’t think I ever shall be, — because as soon as I 
have got the house quite in order, I am going to ask a great 
many friends to stay with me in turn. They will enjoy seeing 
the old place, and country air is such a boon to London peo- 
ple ! Good-bye ! ” — and here she turned to Marius Longford 
— -“Fm afraid I haven’t read any of your books! — anyway 
I expect they would be too deep for me. Wouldn’t they?” 

“ Lord Eoxmouth has been good enough to express his liking 
for my poor efforts,” he replied, with a slight covert smile — • 
“ I believe you know him ? ” 

“ Oh, quite well — quite too well ! ” said Maryllia, without 
any discomposure — •“ But what he likes, I always detest. Un- 
fortunate, isn’t it ? Sol mustn’t even try to read your works ! 
You, Mr. Adderley” — and she laughingly looked up at that 
gentleman, who, hat in hand, was pensively drooping in a 
farewell attitude before her,— “ you are going to stop here all 
summer, aren’t you? And in a cottage! How delightful! 
Anywhere near the Manor ? ” 

“ I am not so happy as to have found a domicile on this 
side Eden ! ” murmured Adderley, with a languishing look— 
“My humble hut is set some distance apart, — about a mile 
beyond the rectory.” 

“ Then your best neighbour will be the parson,” said Maryl- 
lia, gaily— “So improving to your morals!” 


194 


God’s Good Man 


"Possibly — possibly!” assented Adderley — "Mr. Walden is 
not exactly like other parsons, — there is something wonder- 
fully attractive about him ” 

" Something wonderfully conceited and unbearable, you 
mean ! ” snapped out Sir Morton — " Come, come ! — we must 
be off! The horses are at the door, — can’t keep them stand- 
ing! Miss Yancourt doesn’t want to hear anything about the 
parson. She’ll find him out soon enough for herself. He’s 
an upstart, my dear lady — take my word for it! — a pretentious 
University prig and upstart ! You’ll never meet him at Bads- 
worth! — ha-ha-ha! Never! Sorry you can’t dine on Thurs- 
day ! Never mind, never mind ! Another time ! Good- 
bye!” 

" Good-bye ! ” and with a slight further exchange of saluta- 
tions Maryllia found herself relieved of her visitors. Of all 
the four, Adderley alone looked back with a half-appealing 
smile, and received an encouraging little nod for his pains — 
a nod which said 6 Yes — you can come again if you like ! ’ 
The wheels of the Pippitt equipage crunched heavily down 
the drive, and as the grating sound died away, clear on the 
quiet air came the soft slow chime of the church-bells ring- 
ing. It was near sunset, — and Walden sometimes held a short 
simple service of evening prayer at that hour. Leaning 
against the open window Maryllia listened. 

“ How pretty it is ! ” she said — “ It must be the nearness 
of the river that makes the tone of the bells so soft and mel- 
low ! Oh, what an insufferable old snob that Pippitt is ! And 
what a precious crew of ‘friends’ he boasts of! Lumpton, 
who, when he was a few years younger, danced the skirt-dance 
in women’s clothes for forty pounds a night at a New York 
restaurant! — Mawdenham, who pawned all his mother’s jewels 
to pay his losses at Bridge — and Lady Elizabeth Messing, who 
is such an abandoned old creature that her own married 
daughters won’t know her! Oh, dear! And I believe the 
Knighted Bone-Boiler thinks they are quite good style ! That 
literary man, Longford, was a most unprepossessing looking 
object, — a friend of Roxmouth’s too, which makes him all the 
more unpleasant. And of course he will at once write off and 
say he has seen me. And then — and then — dear me! I won- 
der where Sir Morton picks these people up! He doesn’t 
like the parson here evidently — ‘ a pretentious University prig 
and upstart’ — what a strong way of putting it! — very strong 
for such a clean-looking old man ! ‘ A pretentious University 
prig and upstart’ are you, Mr. Walden!” Here, smiling to 


God’s Good Man 


195 


herself, she moved out into the garden and called her dog to 
her side — “ Do you hear that, Plato ? Our next-door neigh- 
bour is a prig as well as a parson ! — isn’t it dreadful ! ” Plato 
looked up at her with great loving brown eyes and wagged his 
plumy tail. “I believe he is, — and yet — yet all the same, I 
think — yes ! — I think, as soon as a convenient opportunity 
presents itself, I’ll ask him to dinner.” 


XIII 


rriHE next day Maryllia was up betimes, and directly after 
“*■ breakfast she sent for Mrs. Spruce. That good lady, 
moved by the summons into sudden trepidation, lest some 
duty had been forgotten, or some clause of the household 
; rules and regulations ’ left unfulfilled, hastened to the inner 
library, a small octagonal room communicating with the larger 
apartment, and there found her mistress sitting on a low stool, 
with her lap full of visiting-cards which she was busily sort- 
ing. 

“ Spruce ! ” and she looked up from her occupation with a 
mock tragic air — •“ I’m dull ! Positively D U double L 1 
DULL! ” 

Mrs. Spruce stared, — but merely said : 

“ Lor, Miss ! ” and folded her hands on her apron, awaiting 
the next word. 

“ I’m dull, dull, dull ! ” repeated Maryllia, springing up and 
tossing all the cards into a wide wicker basket near at hand — 
“I don’t know what to do with myself. Spruce! I’ve got 
nobody to talk to, nobody to play with, nobody to sing to, 
nobody to amuse me at all, at all ! I’ve seen everything inside 
and outside the Manor, — I’ve visited the church, — I know the 
village — I’ve talked to dear old Josey Letherbarrow till he 
must be just tired of me, — he’s certainly the cleverest man in 
the place, — and yesterday the Pippitts came and finished me. 
I’m done! I throw up the sponge! — that’s slang. Spruce! 
There’s nobody to see, nowhere to go, nothing to do. It’s 
awful ! 4 The time is out of joint, O cursed spite ! ’ That’s 

Hamlet. Something must happen, Spruce ! ” — and here she 
executed a playful pas-seul around the old housekeeper — 
“ There ! Isn’t that pretty ? Don’t look so astonished ! — 
you’ll see ever so much worse than that by and bye! I am 
going to have company. I am, really! I shall fill the house! 
Get all the beds aired, and all the bedrooms swept out! I 
shall ask heaps of people, — all the baddest, maddest folks I 
can find ! I want to be bad and mad myself ! There’s nobody 
bad or mad enough to keep me going down here. Look at 

196 


God’s Good Man 


197 


these ! ” And she raked among the visiting-cards and selected 
a few. “ Listen ! — ‘ Miss Ittlethwaite, Miss Agnes Ittle- 
thwaite. Miss Barbara Ittlethwaite, Miss Christina Ittle- 
thwaite, Ittlethwaite Park.’ It makes my tongue all rough 
and funny to read their names! They’ve called, — and I sup- 
pose I shall have to call back, but I don’t want to. What’s 
the good? I’m sure I never shall get on with the Ittle- 
thwaites, — we shall never, never agree! Do you know them. 
Spruce ? Who are they ? ” 

Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath, rolled up her eyes, and 
began: 

“ Which the Misses Ittlethwaite is a county fam’ly, Miss, 
livin’ some seven or eight miles from here as proud as proud, 
owin’ to their forebears ’avin’ sworn death on Magnum 
Chartus for servin’ of King John — an’ Miss Ittlethwaite 
proper, she be gettin’ on in years, but she’s a great huntin’ 
lady, an’ come November is alius to be seen f oiler in’ the 
’ounds, stickin’ to the saddle wonderful for ’er size an’ time 
o’ life, an’ Miss Barbara, she doos a lot o’ sick visitin’, an’ 
Bible readin’, not ’ere, for our people won’t stand it, an’* 
Passon Walden ain’t great on breakin’ into private ’ouses 
without owners’ consents for Bible readin’, but she, she’s 
’Igh, an’ tramps into Eiversford near every day which the 
carrier’s cart brings ’er ’ome to ’er own place they ’avin’ 
given up a kerridge owin’ to spekylation in railways, an’ Miss 
Hagnes she works lovely with ’er needle, an’ makes altar 
cloths an’ vestis for Mr. Francis Anthony, the ’Igh Church 
clergyman at Riversford, he not bein’ married, though myself 
I should say there worn’t no chance for ’er, bein’ frightful 
skinny an’ a bit off in ’er looks — an’ Miss Christina she do 
still play at bein’ a baby like, she’s the youngest, an’ over 
forty, yet quite a giddy in ’er way, wearin’ ribbins round her 
waist, an’ if ’twarn’t for ’er cheeks droppin’ in long like, she 
wouldn’t look so bad, but they’re all that proud ” 

“ That’ll do. Spruce, that’ll do ! ” cried Maryllia, putting her 
hands to her ears — “ No more Ittlethwaites, please, for the 
present ! Sufficient for the day is the Magnum Chartus there- 
of ! Who comes here ? ” and she read from another card, — 
“ ‘ Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby.’ Also a smaller label which says, 
‘ Mr. Mordaunt Appleby’! More county family pride or 
what? ” 

“ Oh lor’ no, Miss, Mordaunt Appleby’s only the brewer of 
Riversford,” said Mrs. Spruce, casually. “He’s got the big- 
gest ’ouse in the town, but people remembers ’im when he 


God’s Good Man 


198 

was a very shabby lot indeed, — an awful shabby lot. He ain’t 
nobody. Miss — he’s just got a bit o’ money which makes the 
commoner sort wag tails for ’im, but it’s like his cheek to call 
’ere at all. Sir Morton Pippitt, bein’ in the bone-meltin’ line, 
’as ’im up to dine now an’ agin, just to keep in with ’im like, 
for he’s a nasty temper, an’ his wife’s got the longest and 
spitefullest tongue in all the neighbourhood. But you needn’t 
take up wi’ them, Miss — they ain’t in your line, — which some 
brewers is gentlemen, an’ Appleby ain’t — your Pa wouldn’t 
never know his Pa.” 

“ Then that’s settled ! ” said Maryllia, with a sigh of relief. 
“ Depart, Mordaunt Applebys into the limbo of forgotten 
callers ! ” — and she tossed the cards aside — “ Here are the 
Pippitt names,— I small remember them all right — Pip- 
pitt and Ittlethwaite have a tendency to raise blisters of 
memory on the brain. What is this neat looking little bit of 
pasteboard — 4 The Bev. John Walden.’ Yes! — he called two 
or three days ago when I was out.” 

Mrs. Spruce sniffed a sniff of meaning, but said nothing. 

“I’ve not been to church yet” — went on Maryllia medi- 
tatively. “ I dare say he thinks me quite a dreadful person. 
But I hate going to church, — it’s so stupid — so boresome — 
and oh ! — such a waste of time ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce still held her peace. Maryllia gave her a little 
side-glance and noted a certain wistfulness and wonder in the 
rosy, wrinkled face which was not without its own pathos. 

“ I suppose everybody about here goes to church at least 
once on Sundays,” pursued Maryllia — “ Don’t they ? ” 

“ Them as likes Mr. Walden goes,” answered Mrs. Spruce 
promptly — “ Then as don’t stops away. Sir Morton Pippitt 
used alius to attend ’ere reg’ler when the buildin’ was nowt 
but ruin, an’ ’e ’ad a tin roof put over it, — ’e was that proud 
o’ the tin roof you’d a’ thought ’twas made o’ pure gold, an’ he 
was just wild when Mr. Walden pulled it all off an’ built up 
the walls an’ roof again as they should be all at ’is own 
expense, an’ he went away from the place for sheer spite like, 
an’ stayed abroad a whole year, an’ when ’e come back again 
’e never wouldn’t go nigh it, an’ now ’e attends service at 
Badsworth Church, — Badsworth Barn we calls it, — for ’tain’t 
nowt but a barn which Mr. Leveson keeps ’Igh as ’Igh with 
a bit o’ tinsel an’ six candles, though it’s the mis’ablest place 
ye ever set eyes on, an’ ’e do look a caution ’isself with what 
’e calls a vestiment ’angin’ down over ’is back, which is a 
back as fat as porpuses, the Lord forgive me for sayin’ it, but 


God’s Good Man 


IQQ 


Sir Morton ’© be that set against Mr. Walden he’ll rather 
say ’is prayers in a pig-stye with a pig for the minister than 
in our church, since it’s been all restored an’ conskrated — 
then, as I told you just now, Miss, the Ittlethwaites goes to 
Riversford where they gits opratick music with the i Lord be 
merciful to us mis’able sinners ’ — an’ percessions with candles, 
— so our church is mostly filled wi’ the village folks, farmer 
bodies an’ sich-like, — there ain’t no grand people what comes, 
though we don’t miss ’em, for Passon ’e don’t let us want 
for nothin’ an’ when there’s a man out o’ work, or a woman 
sick, or a child what’s pulin’ a bit, an’ ricketty, he’s alius 
ready to ’elp, with all ’e ’as an’ welcome, payin’ doctor’s fees 
often, — an’ takin’ all the medicine bills on ’isself besides. 
Ah, ’e’s a rare good sort is Passon Walden, an’ so you’d say 
yerself. Miss, if ever you took on your mind to go and hear 
’im preach, an’ studied ’is ways for a bit as ’twere an’ asked 
’bout ’im in the village, for ’e’s fair an’ open as the day an’ 
ain’t got no sly, sneaky tricks in ’im, — he’s just a man, an’ a 
good one — an’ that’s as rare a thing to find in this world as a 
di’mond in a wash-tub, an’ makin’ so bold. Miss, if you’d onny 
go to church next Sunday ” 

Maryllia interrupted her by a little gesture. 

“ I can’t. Spruce ! ” she said, but with great gentleness — “ I 
know it’s the right and proper thing for me to do in the 
country if I wish to stand well with my neighbours, — but I 
can’t! I don’t believe in it, — and I won’t pretend that I 
believe ! ” 

Poor Mrs. Spruce felt a sudden choking in her throat, and 
her motherly face grew red and pale by turns. Miss Maryllia, 
the old squire’s daughter, was — what? A heathen? — an un- 
believer — an atheist? Oh, surely it was not possible — it could 
not be! — she would not accept the idea that a creature so 
dainty and pretty, so fair and winsome, could be cast adrift 
on the darkness of life without any trust in the saving grace 
of the Christian Faith ! Limited as were Mrs. Spruce’s pow- 
ers of intelligence, she was conscious enough that there would 
be something sweet and strong lost out of the world, which 
nothing could replace, were the message of Christ withdrawn 
from it. The perplexity of her thoughts was reflected on her 
countenance and Maryllia, watching her, smiled a little sadly.. 

“ You mustn’t think I don’t believe in God, Spruce,” — she 
said slowly — “ I do ! But I can’t agree with all the churches 
teach about Him. They make Him out to be a cruel, jealous 
and revengeful Being * 


200 


God’s Good Man 


“Mr. Walden don’t ,” put in Mrs. Spruce, quickly. 

“ And I like to think of Him as all love and pity and 
goodness,” went on Maryllia, not heeding her — “ and I don’t 
say prayers, because I think He knows what is best for me 
without my asking. Ho you understand? So it’s really no 
use my going to church, unless just out of curiosity — and 
perhaps I will some day do that, — I’ll see about it! But I 
must know Mr. Walden a little better first, — I must find out 
for myself what kind of a man he is, before I make up my 
mind t*> endure such a martyrdom as listening to a sermon! 
I simply loathe sermons! I suppose I must have had too 
many of them when I was a child. Surely you remember. 
Spruce, that I used to be taken into Kiversford to church ? ” 
Mrs. Spruce nodded emphatically in the affirmative. “Yes! 
- — because when father was alive the church here was only a 
ruin. And I used to go to sleep over the sermons always — • 
and once I fell off my seat and had to be carried out. It 
was dreadful! Now Uncle Bred never went to church, — nor 
Aunt Emily. So I’ve quite got out of the way of going — 
nobody is very particular about it in Paris or London, you 
see. But perhaps I’ll try and hear Mr. Walden preach — just 
once — and I’ll tell you then what I think about it. I’ll put 
bis card on the mantelpiece to remind me ! ” 

And she suited the action to the word, Mrs. Spruce gazing 
at her in a kind of mild stupefaction. It seemed such a very 
odd thing to stick up a clergyman’s card as a reminder to go 
to church ‘just once’ some Sunday. 

Meanwhile Maryllia continued, “Now, Spruce, you must 
begin to be busy! You must prepare the Manor for the recep- 
tion of all sorts of people, small and great. I feel that the 
time has come for ‘ company, company ! ’ And in the first 
place I’m going to send for Cicely Bourne, — she’s my pet 
‘ genius ’ — and I’m paying the cost of her musical education 
in Paris. She’s an orphan — like me — she’s all alone in the 
world — like me ; — and we’re devoted to each other. She’s only 
a child — just over fourteen — but she’s simply a wonder! — 
the most wonderful musical wonder in the world! — and she 
has a perfectly marvellous voice. Her master Gigue says that 
when she is sixteen she will have emperors at her feet ! Em- 
perors! There are only a few, — but they’ll all be grovelling 
in the dust before her! You must prepare some pretty rooms 
for her, Spruce, those two at the top of the house that look 
right over the lawn and woods — and make everything as cosy 
as you can. I’ll put the finishing touches. And I must send 


God’s Good Man 


201 


to London for a grand piano. There’s only the dear old 
spinet in the drawing-room, — it’s sweet to sing to, and Cicely 
will love it, — but she must have a glorious ‘ grand ’ as well. 
I shall wire to her to-day, — I know she’ll come at once. 
She will arrive direct from Paris, — let me see ! ” — and she 
paused meditatively — “ when can she arrive ? This is Friday, 
— -yes! — probably she will arrive here Sunday or Monday 
morning. So you can get everything ready.” 

u Very well, Miss,” and Mrs. Spruce, with the usual regula- 
tion 4 dip 9 of respectful submission to her mistress was about 
to withdraw, when Maryllia called her back and handed over 
to her care the wicker basket full of visiting-cards. 

“ Put them all by,” — she said — “When Cicely comes we’ll 
go through them carefully together, and discuss what to eat, 
drink and avoid. Till then, I shall blush unseen, wasting 
my sweetness on the desert air! Time enough and to spare 
for making the acquaintance of the 1 county.’ Who was it 
that said: 1 Never know your neighbours’? I forget, — but 
he was a wise man, anyway ! ” 

Mrs. Spruce ‘ dipped’ a second time in silence, and was 
then allowed to depart on her various household duties. The 
good woman’s thoughts were somewhat chaotically jumbled, 
and most fervently did she long to send for ‘Passon,’ her 
trusted adviser and chief consoler, or else go to him herself 
and ask him what he thought concerning the non-church-going 
tendencies of her mistress. Was she altogether a lost sheep? 
Was there no hope for her entrance into the heavenly fold? 

“ Which I can’t and won’t believe she’s wicked,” — said Mrs. 
Spruce to herself — “ With that sweet childie face an’ eyes she 
couldn’t be! M’appen ’tis bad example, — ’er ’Merican aunt 
’avin’ no religion as ’twere, an’ ’er uncle, Mr. Frederick, was 
never no great shakes in ’is young days if all the truth was 
told. Well, well ! The Lord ’e knows ’is own, an’ my ’pinion 
is He ain’t a-goin’ to do without Miss Maryllia, for it’s alius 
* turn again, turn again, why will ’ee die ’ sort of thing with 
Him, an’ He don’t give out in ’is patience. I’m glad she’s 
goin’ to ’ave a friend to stay with ’er, — that’ll do ’er good and 
’earten her up — an’ mebbe the friend’ll want to go to church, 
an’ Miss Maryllia ’ull go with her, an’ once they listens to 
Passon ’twill be all right, for ’is voice do draw you up into 
a little bit o’ heaven somehow, whether ye likes it or not, 
an’ if Miss Maryllia once ’ears ’im, she’ll be wanting to ’ear 
’im again — so it’s best to leave it all in the Lord’s ’ands which 
makes the hill straight an’ the valleys crooked, an’ knows 


202 


God’s Good Man 


what’s good for both man and beast. Miss Maryllia ain’t 
goin’ to miss the Way, the Truth an’ the Life — I’m sartin 
sure o’ that ! ” 

Thus Mrs. Spruce gravely cogitated, while Maryllia herself, 
unaware of the manner in which her immortal destinies were 
being debated by the old housekeeper, put on her hat, and 
ran gaily across the lawn, her great dog bounding at her side, 
making for the usual short-cut across the fields to the village. 
Arrived there she went straight to the post-office, a curious 
little lop-sided half-timbered cottage with a projecting window, 
wherein, through the dusty close-latticed panes could be spied 
various strange edibles, such as jars of acidulated drops, 
toffee, peppermint balls, and barley-sugar — likewise one or 
two stray oranges, some musty-looking cakes, a handful or so 
of old nuts, and slabs of chocolate protruding from shining 
wrappers of tin-foil, — while a flagrant label of somebody’s 
* Choice Tea ’ was suspended over the whole collection, like 
a flag of triumph. The owner of this interesting stock-in- 
trade and the postmistress of St. Rest, was a quaint-looking 
little woman, very rosy, very round, very important in her 
manner, very brisk and bright with her eyes, but very slow 
with her fingers. 

“ Which I gets the rheumatiz so bad in my joints,” she was 
wont to say — “that I often wonders ’ow I knows postage- 
stamps from telegram-forms an’ register papers from money- 
orders, an’ if you doos them things wrong Gove’nment never 
forgives you!” 

“Ah, you’ll never get into no trouble with Gove’nment, 
Missis Tapple!” her gossips were wont to assure her, “Tor 
you be as ezack as ezack ! ” 

A compliment which Mrs. Tapple accepted without demur, 
feeling it to be no more than her just due. She was, however, 
in spite of her i ezack ’ methods, always a little worried when 
anything out of the ordinary occurred, and she began to feel 
slightly flustered directly she saw Maryllia swing open her 
garden gate. She had already, during the last few days, been 
at some trouble to decipher various telegrams which the lady 
of the Manor had sent down by Primmins for immediate 
despatch, such as one to a certain Lord Roxmouth which had 
run as. follows : — “ Mo time to reply to your letter. In love 
with pigs and poultry.” 

“ It. is ‘ pigs and poultry,’ ain’t it? ” she had asked anxiously 
of Primmins, after studying the message for a considerable 


God’s Good Man 


203 

time through her spectacles. And Primmins, gravely study- 
ing it, too, had replied : — 

“ It is undoubtedly ‘ pigs and poultry.’ ” 

“ And it is ‘ in love ’ you think ? 99 pursued Mrs. Tapple, 
with perplexity furrowing her brow. 

“It is certainly ‘ in love,’” rejoined Primmins, and the 
faintest suggestion of a wink affected his left eyelid. 

Thereupon the telegram was ‘sent through’ to Riversford 
on its way to London, though not without serious misgivings 
in Mrs. Tapple’s mind as to whether it might not be returned 
with a ‘ Gove’nment ’ query as to its correctness. And now, 
when Maryllia herself entered the office, and said smilingly, 
“ Good-morning ! Some foreign telegram-forms, please ! ” 
Mrs. Tapple felt that the hour was come when her powers of 
intelligence were about to be tried to the utmost; and she 
accordingly began to experience vague qualms of uneasiness. 

“Foreign telegram-forms. Miss? Is it for Ameriky?” 

“ Oh, no ! — only for Paris,” — and while the old lady fumbled 
nervously in her ‘ official 9 drawer, Maryllia glanced around the 
little business establishment with amused interest. She had a 
keen eye for small details, and she noticed with humorous 
appreciation Mrs. Tapple’s pink sun-bonnet hanging beside 
the placarded ‘Post Office Savings Bank’ regulations, and a 
half side of bacon suspended from the ceiling, apparently 
for ‘curing’ purposes, immediately above the telegraphic 
apparatus. After a little delay, the required pale yellow 
‘Foreign and Colonial’ forms were found, and Mrs. Tapple 
carefully flattened them out, and set them on her narrow 
office counter. 

“Will you have a pencil, or pen and ink. Miss?” she 
enquired. 

“Pen and ink, please,” replied Maryllia; whereat the old 
postmistress breathed a sigh of relief. It would be easier to 
make out anything at all ‘strange and uncommon’ in pen 
and ink than in pencil-marks which had a trick of ‘rubbing.’ 
Leaning lightly against the counter Maryllia wrote in a clear 
bola round hand : 

“Miss Cicely Bourne, 

“ 17 Hue Croisie, Paris. 

“ Come to me at once. Shall want you all summer. Have 
wired Gigue. Start to-morrow. 

“Maryllia Vancourt.” 

She pushed this over to Mrs. Tapple, who thankfully noting 
that she was writing another, took time to carefully read 


204 


God’s Good Man 


and spell over every word, and mastered it all without diffi- 
culty. Meanwhile Maryllia prepared her second message 
thus: 

“Louis Gigue, 

“ Conservatoire, Paris. 

“ Je desire que Cicely passe l’ete avec moi et qu’elle arrive 
immediatement. Elle peut tyes-bien continuer ses etudes ici. 
Vous pouvez suivre, cher maltre, a votre plaisir. 

“Maryllia Vancourt.” 

“It’s rather long,” — she said thoughtfully, as she finished 
it. “ But for Gigue it is necessary to explain fully. X hope 
you can make it out ? ” 

Poor Mrs. Tapple quivered with inward agitation as she 
took the terrible telegram in hand, and made a brave effort to 
rise to the occasion. 

“Yes, Miss,” she stammered, “Louis Gigue — G. i. g. u. e., 
that’s right — yes — at the Conservatory, Paris.” 

“No, no!” said Maryllia, with a little laugh — “Not Con- 
servatory — Conservatoire — toire, t. o. i. r. e., the place where 
they study music.” 

“ Oh, yes — I see ! ” and Mrs. Tapple tried to smile know- 
ingly, as she fixed her spectacles more firmly on her nose, 
and began to murmur slowly — “ Je desire, d. e. sire — oh, yes 
— desire! — que — q. u. e. — Cicely — yes that’s all right! — passe, 
an e to pass — -yes- — now let me wait a minute; one minute. 
Miss, if you please ! — l’ete — 1 apostrophe e, stroke across, the 
e, — t, and e, stroke across the e ” 

Maryllia’s eyebrows went up in pretty perplexity. 

“ Oh dear, I’m afraid you won’t be able to get it right that 
way ! ” she said — ■“ I had better write it in English, — why, 
here’s Mr. Walden!” This, as she saw the clergyman’s tall 
athletic figure entering Mrs. Tapple’s tiny garden, — “ Good- 
morning, Mr. Walden!” and as he raised his hat, she smiled 
graciously — “I want to send off a French telegram, and I’m 
afraid it’s rather difficult ” 

A glance at Mrs. Tapple explained the rest, and Walden’s 
eyes twinkled mirthfully. 

“Perhaps I can be of some use, Miss Vancourt,” he said. 
“Shall I try?” 

Maryllia nodded, and he walked into the little office. 

“ Let me send off those telegrams for you, Mrs. Tapple,” he 
said. “You know you often allow me to amuse myself in 
that way! I haven’t touched the instrument for a month at 
least, and am getting quite out of practice. May I come in ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


205 


Mrs. Tapple’s face shone with relief and gladness. 

“ Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn’t a real blessin’ that you 
happened to look in this mornin’ ! ” she exclaimed — “ For now 
there won’t be no delay, — not but what I knew a bit o’ French 
as a gel, an’ I’d ’ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no 
matter how slow, — but there! you’re that handy that ’twon’t 
take no time, an’ Miss Yancourt will be sure of her message 
’avin’ gone straight otf from here correct, — an’ if they makes 
mistakes at Riversford, ’twon’t be my fault ! ” 

While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the tele- 
graphic apparatus. His back was turned to Maryllia, but he 
felt her eyes upon him, — as indeed they were, — and there wad 
a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presently 
looked round and said : 

“May I have the telegram?” 

“ There are two — both for Paris,” replied Maryllia, hand- 
ing him the filled-up forms — “ One is quite easy — in English.” 

“ And the other quite difficult — in French ! ” — he laughed. 
“Let me see if I can make it out correctly.” Thereupon he 
read aloud : “ 4 Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris. J e desire 
que Cicely passe l’ete avec moi et qu’elle arrive immediate- 
ment. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Yous 
pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.’ Is that right ? ” 

Maryllia’s eyes opened a little more widely, — like blue flow- 
ers wakening to the sun. This country clergyman’s pronunci- 
ation of French was perfect, — more perfect than her own 
trained Parisian accent. Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy 
red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration. ‘Passon’ knew 
everything ! 

“Is it right?” Walden repeated. 

Maryllia gave a little start. 

“ Oh I beg your pardon ! Yes — quite right ! — thank you 
ever so much ! ” 

Click-click-click-click! The telegraphic apparatus was at 
work, and the unofficial operator was entirely engrossed in his 
business. Mrs. Tapple stood respectfully dumb and motion- 
less, watching him. Maryllia, leaning against the ledge of 
the office counter, watched him, too. She took, quiet observa- 
tion of the well-poised head, covered with its rich brown-grey 
waving locks of hair, — the broad shoulders, the white firm 
muscular hands that worked the telegraphic instrument, and 
she was conscious of the impression of authority, order, 
knowledge, and self-possession, which seemed to have come 
into the little office with him, and to have created quite 


206 


God’s Good Man 


a new atmosphere. Outside, in the small garden, among 
mignonette and early flowering sweetpeas, Plato sat on his 
huge haunches in lion-like dignity, blinking at the sun, — 
while Walden’s terrier Nebbie executed absurd but entirely 
friendly gambols in front of him, now pouncing down on two 
forepaws with nose to ground and eyes leering sideways, — 
now wagging an excited tail with excessive violence to demon- 
strate goodwill and a desire for amity, — and anon giving a 
short yelp of suppressed feeling, — to all of which conciliatory 
approaches Plato gave no other response than a vast yawn 
and meditative stare. 

The monotonous click-click-click continued, — now stopping 
for a second, then going on more rapidly again, till Maryllia 
began to feel quite unreasonably impatient. She found some- 
thing irritating at last in the contemplation of the back of 
Walden’s cranium, — it was too well-shaped, she decided, — she 
could discover no fault in it. Humming a tune carelessly 
under her breath, she turned towards Mrs. Tapple’s small gro- 
cery department, and feigned to be absorbed in an admiring 
survey of peppermint balls and toffee. Certain glistening 
squares of sticky white substance on a corner shelf com- 
mended themselves to her notice as specimens of stale c nou- 
gat,’ wherein the almonds represented a remote antiquity, — 
and a mass of stringy yellow matter laid out in lumps on 
blue -paper and marked ‘ One Penny per ounce ’ claimed atten- 
tion as a certain c hardbake’ peculiar to St. Rest, which was 
best eaten in a highly glutinous condition. A dozen or so of 
wrinkled apples which, to judge by their damaged and worn 
exteriors, must have been several autumns old, kept melan- 
choly companionship with assorted packages of the c Choice 
Tea’ whereof the label was displayed in the window, and 
Maryllia was just about wondering whether she would, or 
could buy anything out of the musty-fusty collection, when 
the click-click-click stopped abruptly, and Walden stepped 
forth from the interior ‘den’ of the post-office. 

“That’s all right. Miss Vancourt,” he said. “Your tele- 
grams are sent correctly as far as Riversford anyhow, and 
there is one operator there who is acquainted with the French 
language. Whether they will transmit correctly from London 
I shouldn’t like to say! — we are a singular nation, and one 
of our singularities is that we scorn to know the language of 
our nearest neighbours ! ” 

She smiled up at him, — and as his glance met hers he was 
taken aback, as it were, by the pellucid beauty and frank 


God’s Good Man 207 

innocence of the grave dark-blue eyes that shone so serenely 
into his own. 

“ Thank you so very, very much ! You have been most 
kind ! ” and with a swift droop of her white eyelids she veiled 
those seductive ‘ mirrors of the soul ’ beneath a concealing 
fringe of long golden-brown lashes — “ It’s quite a new experi- 
ence to find a clergyman able and willing to be a telegraph 
clerk as well ! So useful, isn’t it ? ” 

“In a village like this it is,” rejoined Walden, gaily — 
“ And after all, there’s not much use in being a minister 
unless one can practically succeed in the art of 4 ministering ’ 
to every sort of demand made upon one’s capabilities! Even 
to Miss Vancourt’s needs, should she require anything, from 
the preservation of trees to the sending of telegrams, that St. 
Rest can provide ! ” 

Again Maryllia glanced at him, and again a little smile 
lifted the corners of her mouth. 

“ I must pay for the telegrams,” she said abruptly — “ Mrs. 
Tapple ” 

“Yes, Miss — I’ve written it all down,” murmured Mrs. 
Tapple nervously — “It’s right, Mr. Walden, isn’t it? If you 
would be so good as to look at it, bein’ tuppence a word, it do 
make it different like, an’ m’appen there might be a mis- 
take ” 

Walden glanced over the scrap of paper on which she had 
scrawled her rough figures. 

“ Eivepence out, I declare, Mrs. Tapple ! ” he said, merrily. 
“Dear, dear! Whatever is going to become of you, eh? To 
cheat yourself wouldn’t matter — nobody minds that — but to 
do the British Government out of fivepence would be a dread- 
ful thing! Now if I had not seen this you would have been 
what is called ‘short’ this evening in making up accounts.” 
Here he handed the corrected paper to Maryllia. “I think 
you will find that right.” 

Maryllia opened her purse and paid the amount, — and Mrs. 
Tapple, in giving her change for a sovereign, included among 
the coins a bright new threepenny piece with a hole in it. 
Spying this little bit of silver, Maryllia held it up in front of 
Walden’s eyes triumphantly. 

“ Luck ! ” she exclaimed — “ That’s for you ! It’s a reward 
for your telegraphic operations! Will you be grateful if I 
give it to you?” 

He laughed. 

“ Profoundly ! It shall be my D. S. O. ! 99 


208 


God’s Good Man 


“ Then there you are ! ” and she placed the tiny coin in the 
palm of the hand he held out to receive it. “ The labourer 
is worthy of his hire! Now you can never go about like 
some clergymen, grumbling and saying you work for no pay ! 99 
Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “ What shall we do next ? 
Oh, I know ! Let’s buy some acid drops ! 99 

Mrs. Tapple stared and smiled. 

“ Or pear-drops,” continued Maryllia, glancing critically at 
the various jars of ‘ sweeties,’ — “I see the real old-fashioned 
pink ones up there, — lumpy at one end and tapering at the 
other. Do you like them? Or brandy balls? I think the 
pear-drops carry one back to the age of ten most quickly I 
But which do you prefer ? ” 

Walden tried to look serious, hut could not succeed. 
Laughter twinkled all over his face, and he began to feel 
extremely young. 

“ Well, — really. Miss Yancourt, — ” he began. 

“ There, I know what you are going to say ! 99 exclaimed 
Maryllia — “You are going to tell me that it would never do 
for a clergyman to be seen munching pear-drops in his own 
parish. I understand ! But clergymen do ever so much 
worse than that sometimes. They do, really! Two ounces 
of pear-drops for me, Mrs. Tapple, please ! — and one of brandy 
balls!” 

Mrs. Tapple bustled out of her ‘ Gove’nment’ office, and 
came to the grocery counter to dispense these dainties. 

“They stick to the jar so,” said Maryllia, watching her 
thoughtfully; “They always did. I remember, as a child, 
seeing a man put his finger in to detach them. Don’t put your 
finger in, Mrs. Tapple! — take a hit of wood — an old skewer 
or something. Oh, they’re coming out all right! That’s it ! 99 
And she popped one of the pear-drops into her mouth. “ They 
are really very good— better than French fondants — so much 
more innocent and refreshing!” Here she took possession of 
the little paper-bags which Mrs. Tapple had filled with the 
sweets. “Thank you, Mrs. Tapple! If any answers to my 
telegrams come from Paris, please send them up to the Manor 
at once. Good-morning ! ” 

“Good-morning, Miss!” And Mrs. Tapple, curtseying, 
pulled the door of her double establishment wider open to let 
the young lady pass out, which she did, with a smile and nod, 
Walden following her. Plato rose and paced majestically 
after his mistress, Nebbie trotting meekly at the rear, and 


God’s Good Man 


209 


so they all went forth from the postmistress’s garden into 
the road, where Walden, pausing, raised his hat in farewell. 

“ Oh, are you going? ” queried Maryllia. “ Won’t you walk 
with me as far as your own rectory ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it,” — he answered with a slight 
touch of embarrassment ; “ I thought perhaps ” 

“You thought perhaps, — what?” laughed Maryllia, glanc- 
ing up at him archly — “ That I was going to make you eat 
pear-drops against your will ? Not I ! I wouldn’t be so rude. 
But I really thought I ought to buy something from Mrs. 
Tapple, — she was so worried, poor old dear! — till you came 
in. Then she looked as happy as though she saw a vision ol 
angels. She’s a perfect picture, with her funny old shawl and 
spectacles and knobbly red fingers — and do you know, all the 
time you were working the telegraph you were under the 
fragrant shadow of a big piece of bacon which was ( curing,’ — * 
positively 6 curing’ over your head! Couldn’t you smell it?” 

Walden’s eyes twinkled. 

“ There was certainly a fine aroma in the air,” he said — 
“But it seemed to me no more than the customary perfume 
common to Mrs. Tapple’s surroundings. I daresay it was new 
to you! A country clergyman is perhaps the only human 
being who has to inure himself to bacon odours as the prevail- 
ing sweetness of cottage interiors.” 

Maryllia laughed. She had a pretty laugh, silver-clear and 
joyous without loudness. 

“Fancy your being so clever as to be able to send off 
telegrams ! ” she exclaimed — “ What an accomplishment for a! 
Churchman! Don’t you want to know all about the messages 
you sent? — who the persons are, and what I have to do with 
them ? ” 

“Not in the least!” answered John, smiling. 

“ Are you not of a curious disposition ? ” 

“ I never care about other people’s business,” he said, meet- 
ing her upturned eyes with friendly frankness — “ I have 
enough to do to attend to my own.” 

“Then you are positively inhuman!” declared Maryllia— 
“ And absolutely unnatural ! You are, really ! Every two- 
legged creature on earth wants to find out all the ins and outs 
of every other two-legged creature, — for if this were not the 
case wars would be at an end, and the wicked cease from 
troubling and the weary be at rest. So just because you don’t 
want to know about my two friends in Paris, Pm going to tell 
you. Louis Gigue is the greatest teacher of singing there is. 


210 


God’s Good Man 


* — and Cicely Bourne is his pupil, a perfectly wonderful little 
girl with a marvellous compass of voice, whose training and 
education I am paying for. I want her with me here — and I 
have sent for her; — Gigue can come on if he thinks it neces- 
sary to give her a few lessons during the summer, but of 
course she is not to sing in public until she is sixteen. She 
is only fourteen now.” 

Walden listened in silence. He was looking at his com- 
panion sideways, and noting the delicate ebb and flow of the 
rose tint in her cheeks, the bright flecks of gold in the other- 
wise brown hair, and the light poise of her dainty rounded 
figure as she stepped along beside him with an almost aerial 
grace and swiftness. 

“ She was the child of a Cornish labourer,” — went on 
Maryllia. “ Her mother sold her for ten pounds. Yes ! — * 
wasn’t it dreadful?” This, as John’s face expressed surprise. 
“But it is true! You shall hear all the story some day, — • 
it is quite a little romance. And she is so clever ! — you would 
think her ever so much older than she is, to hear her talk. 
Sometimes she is rather blunt, and people get offended with 
her — but she is true — oh, so true! — she wouldn’t do a mean 
action for the world! She is just devoted to me, — and that 
is perhaps why I am devoted to her, — because after all, it’s a 
great thing to be loved, isn’t it ? ” 

“It is indeed!” replied John, mechanically, beginning to 
feel a little dazed under the influence of the bright eyes, 
animated face, smiling lips and clear, sweet voice — “ It ought 
to be the best of all things.” 

“ It ought to be, and it is ! ” declared Maryllia emphatically. 
“ Oh, what a lovely bush of lilac ! ” And she hastened on a few 
6teps in order to look more closely at the admired blossoms, 
which were swaying in the light breeze over the top of a 
thick green hedge — “ Why, it must be growing in your gar- 
den! Yes, it is! — of course it is! — this is your gate. May 
I come in ? ” 

She paused, her hand on the latch, — and for a moment 
Walden hesitated. A wave of colour swept up to his brows, — - 
he was conscious of a struggling desire to refuse her request, 
united to a still more earnest craving to grant it. She looked 
at him, wistfully smiling. 

“ May I come in ? ” she repeated. 

He advanced, and opened the gate, standing aside for hel 
to pass. 

“ Of course you may ! ” — he said gently, — “ And welcome ! ” 


xiv 


N ow it happened that Bainton was at that moment 
engaged in training some long branches of honey-suckle 
across the rectory walls, and being half-way up a ladder 
for the purpose, the surprise he experienced at seeing 4 Pas- 
son’ and Miss Yancourt enter the garden together and walk 
slowly side by side across the lawn, was so excessive, that in 
jerking his head round to convince himself that it was not a 
vision but a reality, he nearly lost his balance. 

“Woa, steady!” he muttered, addressing the ladder which 
for a second swayed beneath him — “Woa, I sez! This ain’t 
no billowy ocean with wot they calls an underground swell! 
So the ice ’ave broke, ’ave it! She, wot don’t like clergymen, 
an’ he, wot don’t like ladies, ’as both come to saunterin’ peace- 
ful like with one another over the blessed green grass all on a 
fine May mornin’! Which it’s gettin’ nigh on June now an’ 
no sign o’ the weather losin’ temper. Well, well! Wonders 
won’t never cease it’s true, but I’d as soon a’ though# o’ my 
old ’ooman dancin’ a ’ornpipe among her cream cheeses as 
that Passon Walden would a’ let Miss Yancourt inside this 
’ere gate so easy like, an’ he a bacheldor. But there! — arter 
all, he’s gettin’ on in years, an’ she’s ever so much younger 
than he is, an’ I dessay he’s made up his mind to treat ’er 
kind like, as ’twere her father, which he should do, bein’ 
spiritooal ’ead o’ the village, an’ as for the pretty face of ’er, 
he’s not the man to look at it more’n once, an’ then he 
couldn’t tell you wot it’s like. He favours his water-lilies 
mor’n females, — ah, an’ I bet he’d give ten pound for a new 
specimen of a flower when he wouldn’t lay out a ’apenny on 
a new specimen of a woman.” Here, pausing in his reflec- 
tions, he again looked cautiously round from his high vantage 
point of view on the ladder, and saw Walden break off a spray 
of white lilac from one bush of a very special kind near the 
edge of the lawn, and give it to Miss Yancourt. “Well, now 
that do beat me altogether!” he ejaculated under his breath. 
“If he’s told me once, he’s told me a ’undred times that he 
won’t ’ave no blossoms broke off that bush on no account. 

21 1 


212 


God’s Good Man 


An’ there he is a-pickin’ of it hisself ! That’s a kind of thing 
•which do make me feel that men is a poor feeble-minded lot, 
• — it do reely now ! ” 

But feeble-minded or not, John had nevertheless gathered 
the choice flower, and moreover, had found a certain pleasure 
in giving it to his fair companion, who inhaled its delicious 
odour with an appreciative smile. 

“ What a dear old house you have ! ” she said, glancing 
up at the crossed timbers, projecting gables, and quaint 
dormer windows set like eyes in the roof — “ I had no idea 
that it was so pretty! And the garden is perfectly lovely. It 
is so very artistic ! — it looks like a woman’s dream of a garden 
rather than a man’s.” 

John smiled. 

“ You think women more artistic than men ? ” he queried. 

“ In the decorative line — yes,” she replied — “ Especially 
where flowers are concerned. If t one leaves the planning of 
a garden entirely to a man, he is sure to make it too stiff and 
mathematical, — he will not allow Nature to have her own 
way in the least little bit, — in fact ” — and she laughed — “ I 
don’t think men as a rule like to let anything or anybody 
have their own way except themselves ! ” 

The smile still lingered kindly round the corners of Wal- 
den’s mouth. 

“ Possibly you may be right,” — he said — “ I almost believe 
you are. Men are selfish, — much more selfish than women. 
Nature made them so in the first instance, — and our methods 
of education and training all tend to intensify our natural 
bent. But ” — here he paused and looked at her thoughtfully ; 
“ I am not sure that absolute unselfishness would be a wise or 
strong trait in the character of a man. You see the first 
thing he has to do in this world is to earn the right to live, — 
and if he were always backing politely out of everybody else’s 
way, and allowing himself to be hustled to one side in an un- 
selfish desire to let others get to the front, he would scarcely 
be able to hold his own in any profession. And all those 
dependent upon his efforts would also suffer, — so that his 
1 unselfishness ’ might become the very worst kind of selfish- 
ness in the end — don’t you think so ? ” 

“Well — yes — perhaps in that way it might!” hesitated 
Maryllia, with a faint blush — “ I ought not to judge anyone 
I know — but — oh dear! — the men one meets in town — the 
society men with their insufferable airs of conceit and con- 
descension, — their dullness of intellect, — their preference for 


God’s Good Man 


213 


cigars, whiskey, and Bridge to anything else under the sun,— 
their intensely absorbed love of personal ease, and their per- 
fectly absurd confidence in their own supreme wisdom! — these 
are the hybrid creatures that make one doubt the worth of the 
rest of their sex altogether.” 

u But there are hybrid creatures on both sides,” — said 
Walden quietly — “Just as there are the men you speak of, 
bo there are women of the same useless and insufferable 
character. Is it not so ? ” 

She looked up at him and laughed. 

“ Why, yes, of course ! ” she frankly admitted — “ I guess 
I won’t argue with you on the six of one and half-dozen of 
the other! But it’s just as natural for women to criticise 
men as for men to criticise nowadays. Long ago, in the 
lovely 6 once upon a time 9 fairy period, the habit of criticism 
doesn’t appear to have developed strongly in either sex. The 
men were chivalrous and tender, — the women adoring and 
devoted — I think it must have been perfectly charming to 
have lived then ! It is all so different now ! ” 

“ Fortunately, it is,” said John, with a mirthful sparkle in 
his eyes — “ I am sure you would not have liked that ‘ once 
upon a time fairy period 9 as you call it, at all. Miss Vancourt! 
Poets and romancists may tell us that the men were i chival- 
rous and tender/ but plain fact convinces us that they were 
very rough unwashen tyrants who used to shut up their ladies 
in gloomy castles where very little light and air could pene- 
trate, — and the adoring and devoted ladies, in their turn, 
made very short work of the whole business by either dying 
of their own grief and ill-treatment, or else getting killed 
in cold blood by order of their lords and masters. Why, one 
of the finest proofs of an improvement in our civilisation is 
the freedom of thought and action given to women in the 
present day. Personally speaking, I admit to a great fond- 
ness for old-fashioned ways, and particularly for old-fashioned 
manners, — but I cannot shut my mind to the fact that for 
centuries women have been unfairly hindered by men in every 
possible way from all chance of developing the great powers 
of intelligence they possess, — and it is certainly time the 
opposition to their advancement should cease. Of course, 
being a man myself,” — and he smiled — “I daresay that in 
my heart of hearts I like the type of woman I first learned 
to know and love best, — my mother. She had the early 
Victorian ways, — they were very simple, but also very 
6weet.” 


214 God’s Good Man 

He broke off, and for a moment or two they paced th« 
lawn in silence. 

“I suppose you live all alone here?” asked Maryllia, 
suddenly. 

“ Yes. Quite alone.” 

“And are you happy?” 

“I am content.” 

“ I understand! ” and she looked at him somewhat earnestly; 
— Happy’ is a word that should seldom be used I think. 
It is only at the rarest possible moments that one can feel 
real true happiness.” 

“ You are too young to say that,” — he rejoined gently — “All 
your life is before you. The greater part of mine lies behind 
me.” 

Again she glanced at him somewhat timidly. 

“Mr. Walden” — she began — “Pm afraid — I suppose — I 
daresay you think ■” 

John caught the appealing flash of the blue eyes, and 
wondering what she was going to say. She played with the 
spray of lilac he had given her, and for a moment seemed to 
have lost her self-possession. 

“I am quite sure,” — she went on, hurriedly — “that you — I 
mean, I’m afraid you haven’t a very good opinion of me 
because I don’t go to church — ” 

He looked at her, smiling a little. 

“ Don’t you go to church? ” he asked — ■“ I didn’t know it! ” 

Here was a surprise for the lady of the Manor. The 
clergyman of her own parish, — a man, who by all accepted 
rule and precedent ought to have been after her at once, 
asking for subscriptions to this fund and that fund, toadying 
her for her position, and begging for her name and support, 
had not even noticed her absence from divine service on 
Sundays! She did not know whether to be relieved or dis- 
satisfied. Such indifference to her actions piqued her feminine 
pride, and yet, his tone was very kind and courteous. Noting 
the colour coming and going on her face, he spoke again — 

“I never interfere personally with my parishioners, Miss 
Vancourt” — he said — “To attend church or stay away from 
church is a matter of conscience with each individual, and 
must be left to individual choice. I should be the last person 
in the world to entertain a bad opinion of anyone simply 
because he or she never went to church. That would be 
foolish indeed! Some of the noblest and best men in Chris- 
tendom to-day never go to church, — but they are none the less 


God’s Good Man 


215 


noble and good! They have their reasons of conscience for 
non-com m itting themselves to accepted forms of faith, and 
it often turns out that they are more truly Christian and 
more purely religious than the most constant church-goer 
that ever lived. 

Maryllia gave a little sigh of sudden relief. 

“ All, you are a broad-minded Churchman ! ” she said. “ X 
am glad! Very glad! Because you have no doubt followed 
the trend of modern thought, — and you must have read all 
the discussions in the magazines and in the books that are 
written on such subjects, — and you can understand how diffi- 
cult it is to a person like myself to decide what is right when 
so many of the wisest and most educated men agree to differ.” 

Walden stopped abruptly in his walk. 

“ Please do not mistake me. Miss Vancourt,” he said gravely, 
and with emphasis — “ I should be sorry if you gathered a 
wrong opinion of me at the outset of our acquaintance. As 
your minister I feel that I ought to make my position clear to 
you. You say that I have probably followed the trend of 
modern thought — and I presume that you mean the trend of 
modern thought in religious matters. Now I have not 4 fol- 
lowed f it, but I have patiently studied it, and find it in all 
respects deplorable and disastrous. At the same time I would 
not force the high truths of religion on any person, nor would 
I step out of my way to ask anyone to attend church if he 
or she did not feel inclined to do so. And why? Because I 
fully admit the laxity and coldness of the Church in the pres- 
ent day — and I know that there are many ministers of the 
Gospel who do not attract so much as they repel. I am not 
so self-opinionated as to dream that I, a mere country parson, 
can succeed in drawing souls to Christ when so many men 
of my order, more gifted than I, have failed, and continue 
to fail. But I wish you quite frankly to understand that the 
trend of modern thought does not affect the vows I took at 
my ordination, — that I do not preach one thing, and think 
another, — and that whatever my faults and shortcomings may 
be, I most earnestly endeavour to impress the minds of all 
those men and women who are committed to my care with 
the beauty, truth and saving grace of the Christian Faith.” 

Maryllia was silent. She appeared to be looking at the 
daisies in the grass. 

“ I hope,” he continued quietly, “ you will forgive this rather 
serious talk of mine. But when you spoke of ‘ the trend of 
modern thought/ it seemed necessary to me to let you know 


2l6 


God’s Good Man 


at once and straightly that I am not with it, — that I do not 
belong to the modern school. Professing to be a Christian 
minister, I try to be one, — very poorly and unsuccessfully I 
know, — but still, I try ! ” 

Maryllia raised her eyes. There was a glisten on her long 
lashes as of tears. 

“Please forgive me!” she said simply — “And thank you 
for speaking as you have done! I shall always remember it, 
and honour you for it. I hope we shall be friends ? ” 

She put the words as a query, and half timidly held out 
her little ungloved hand. He took it at once and pressed it 
cordially. 

“ Indeed, I am sure we shall ! ” he said heartily, and the 
smile that made his face more than ordinarily handsome lit 
up his eyes and showed a depth of sincerity and kindly feeling 
reflected straight from his honest soul. A sudden blush swept 
over Maryllia’s cheeks, and she gently withdrew her hand 
from his clasp. A silence fell between them, and when they 
broke the spell it was by a casual comment respecting the 
wealth of apple-blossoms that were making the trees around 
them white with their floral snow. 

“ St. Pest is a veritable orchard, when the season favours 
it,” said Walden — “It is one of the best fruit-growing cor- 
ners in England. At Abbot’s Manor, for instance, the cherry 
crop is finer than can be gathered on the same acreage of 
ground in Kent. Hid you know that?” 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ No ! I know absolutely nothing about my own home, Mr. 
Walden, — and I am perfectly aware that I ought to be 
ashamed of my ignorance. I am ashamed of it ! I’m going to 
try and amend the error of my ways as fast as I can. When 
Cicely Bourne comes to stay with me, she will help me. She’3 
ever so much more sensible than I am. She’s a genius.” 

“Geniuses do not always get the credit of being sensible, 
do they?” queried John, smiling — “Are they not supposed to 
be creatures of impulse, dwellers in the air, and wholly irre- 
sponsible ? ” 

“Exactly so,” — she replied — “That is the commonplace 
opinion commonplace people entertain of them. Yet the 
commonplace people owe everything they enjoy in art, liter- 
ature and science to the conceptions of genius, and of genius 
alone. As for Cicely, she is the most practical little person 
possible. She began to earn her living at the age of eleven. 


God’s Good Man 217 

and has c roughed 9 it in the world more severely than many a 
man. But she keeps her dreams.” 

“ And those who wish her well will pray that she may 
always keep them,” — said Walden — ■“ For to lose one’s illu- 
sions is to lose the world.” 

“ The world itself may be an illusion ! ” said Maryllia, 
drawing near the garden gate and leaning upon it for a 
moment, as she glanced up at him with a vague sadness in 
her eyes, — “ We never know. I have often felt that it is only 
a pretty little pageant, with a very dark background behind 
it!” 

He was silent, looking at her. For the first time he caught 
himself noticing her dress. It was of simple pale blue linen, 
relieved with white embroidered lawn, and in its cool, fresh, 
clean appearance was in keeping with the clear bright day. A 
plain straw garden hat tied across the crown and under the 
chin with a strip of soft blue ribbon to match the linen gown, 
was the finish to this ‘ fashionable ’ young woman’s toilette, — 
and though it was infinitely becoming to the fair skin, azure 
eyes, and gold-brown hair of its wearer, it did not suggest 
undue extravagance, or a Paris ‘mode.’ And while he yet 
almost unconsciously studied the picture she made, resting 
one arm lightly across his garden gate, she lifted the latch 
suddenly and swung it open. 

“ Good-bye ! ” and she nodded smilingly — “ Thank you so 
much for letting me see your lovely garden! As soon as 
Cicely arrives, you must come and see her — you will, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ I shall be most happy ” he murmured. 

“ She will be so interested to hear how you sent her my 
telegram,” — continued Maryllia — “And Gigue too — poor old 
Gigue! — he is sure to come over here some time during the 
summer. He is such a quaint person! I think you will like 
him. Good-bye ! ” 

“Good-bye — for the present!” said John with a slight note 
of appeal in his voice, which was not lost wholly upon the 
air alone, for Maryllia turned her head back towards him 
with a laugh. 

“Oh, of course! — only for the present! We are really 
next-door neighbours, and I’m afraid we can’t escape each 
other unless we each play hermit in separate caves! But I 
promise not to bore you with my presence very often ! ” 

She waved the spray of white lilac he had given her in 
farewell, and calling her dog to her side, passed down the 


218 


God’s Good Man 


village road lightly, like a blue flower drifting with the May 
breeze, and was soon ont of sight. 

Walden closed the gate after her with careful slowness, 
and returned across the lawn to his favourite seat under his 
favourite apple-tree. Nebbie followed him, disconsolately 
snuffing the ground in the trail of the departed Plato, who 
doubtless, to the smaller animal’s mind, represented a sort of 
canine monarch who ruthlessly disdained the well-meaning 
attentions of his inferiors. Bainton, having finished his task 
of training the vines across the walls of the rectory, descended 
his ladder, making as much noise as he could about it and 
adding thereto a sudden troublesome cough which would 
he considered, probably excite his master’s sympathy and 
instant attention. But Walden paid no heed. He was ap- 
parently busy fumbling with his watch-chain. Bainton 
waited a moment, and then, unable any longer to control his 
curiosity, seized his ladder and deliberately carried it across 
the lawn, though he knew that that was not the proper way 
to the tool-shed where it was kept. Halting close to the seat 
under the apple-tree, he said: — 

“Yon red honeysuckle’s cornin’ on fine, Passon, — it be as 
full o’ bud as a pod o’ peas.” 

“Ay indeed!” murmured Walden, absently — “ That’s all 
right ! ” 

Bainton paused expectantly. No further word however was 
vouchsafed to him, and he knew by experience that such 
silence implied his master’s wish to be left alone. With an 
almost magisterial gravity he surveyed the Beverend John’s 
bent head, and with another scrutinising glance, ascertained 
the nature of the occupation on which his fingers were en- 
gaged, whereupon his face expressed the liveliest amazement. 
Shouldering his ladder, he went his way, — and once out of 
earshot gave vent to a long low whistle. 

“ It do beat me ! ” he said, slapping one corduroy-trousered 
leg vehemently — “ It do beat me altogether — it do reely now ! 
I ain’t no swearin’ sort, an’ bad langwidge ain’t my failin’, 
but I feel like takin’ a bet, or sayin’ a swear when I sees a 
sensible man like, makin’ a fool of hisself! If Passon ain’t 
gone looney all on a suddint, blest if I knows wot’s come to 
’im. ’Tain’t Miss Vancourt, — ’tain’t no one nor nothink wot 
I knows on, but I’m blowed if he worn’t sittin’ under that 
tree, like a great gaby, a’ fastenin’ a mis’able threepenny bit 
to ’is watch-chain! Did anyone ever ’ear the like! A three- 
penny bit with a ’ole in it! To think of a man like that 


God’s Good Man 21 9 


turnin’ to -the sup’stitions o’ maids an’ wearin’ a oley bit o’ 
silver ! It do make me wild ! — it do reely now ! ” 

And snorting with ineffable disdain, Bainton almost threw 
his ladder into the tool-shed, thereby scaring a couple of doves 
who had found their way within, and who now flew out with 
a whirr of white wings that glistened like pearl in the sun- 
light as they spread upwards and away into the sky. 

“ A threepenny bit with a ’ole in it ! ” he repeated, me- 
chanically watching the birds of peace in their flight — “An’ 
on his watch-chain too, along wi’ the gold cross wot he alius 
wears there, an* which folks sez was the last thing wore by 
’is dead sister! Somethin’s gone wrong with ’im — somethin’ 
must a’ gone wrong! Ginerally speakin’ a ’oley bit means a 
woman in it — but ’tain’t that way wi’ Passon for sure — there’s 
a deeper ’ole than the ’ole in the threepenny — a ’ole wot ain’t 
got no bottom to it, so fur as I can see. I’m just fair ’mazed 
with that ’ole! — ’mazed an’ moithered altogether, blest if I 
ain’t ! ” 

The Eeverend John, meanwhile, seated under his canopy 
of apple-blossoms, had succeeded in attaching the ‘’oley bit’ 
to his chain in such a manner that it should not come unduly 
into notice with the mere action of pulling out his watch. He 
could not, for the life of him, have explained, had he been 
asked, the reason why he had determined to thus privately 
wear it on his own person. To himself he said he ‘ fancied * 
it. And why should not parsons have ‘fancies’ like other 
people ? Why should they not wear ‘ ’oley bits ’ if they liked ? 
No objection, either moral, legal or religious could surely be 
raised to such a course of procedure! 

And John actually whistled a tune as he slipped back his 
chain with its new adornment attached, into his waistcoat 
pocket, and surveyed his garden surroundings with a placid 
smile. His interview with Miss Vancourt had not been an 
unpleasant experience by any means. He liked her better 
than when he had first seen her on the morning of their 
meeting under the boughs of the threatened ‘Five Sister’ 
beeches. He could now, as he thought, gauge her character 
and temperament correctly, with all the wonderful perspicuity 
and not-to-be-contradicted logic of a man. She was charming, 
— and she knew her charm; — she was graceful, and she was 
aware of her grace; — she was bright and intelligent in the 
prettily ‘ surface ’ way of women, — she evidently possessed a 
kind heart, and she seemed thoughtful of other people’s feel- 
ings, — she had a sweet voice and a delightfully musical laugh. 


220 


God’s Good Man 


— and — and — that was about all. It was not much, strictly 
speaking; — yet he found himself considerably interested in 
weighing the pros and cons of her nature, and wondering 
how she had managed to retain, in the worldly and social sur- 
roundings to which she had been so long accustomed, the 
child-like impulsiveness of her manner, and the simple frank- 
ness of her speech. 

“ Of course it may be all put on,” — he reflected, though 
with a touch of shamed compunction at the bare suggestion — 
“ One can never tell ! It seemed natural. And it would 
hardly be worth her while to act a part for the benefit of an 
old fogey like myself. I think she is genuine. I hope so! 
At any rate I will believe she is, till she proves herself other- 
wise. Of course ‘ the trend of modern thought ’ has touched 
her. The cruellest among the countless cruel deeds of latter- 
day theism is to murder the Christ in women. For, as 
woman’s purity first brought the Divine Master into the 
world, so must woman’s purity still keep Him here with us, — 
else we men are lost — lost through the sins, not only of our 
fathers, but chiefly of our mothers ! ” 

That same evening Maryllia received a prompt reply to one 
of the telegrams which Walden had sent off for her in the 
morning. It was brief and to the point, and only ran: — 
‘ Coming. Cicely 9 ; — a message which Mrs. Tapple had no 
difficulty in deciphering, and which she sent up to the Manor, 
post haste, as soon as it arrived. The telegraph-boy who 
conveyed it, got sixpence for himself as a reward for the extra 
speed he had put on in running all the way from the village 
to the house, thereby outstripping the postman, who being 
rotund in figure was somewhat heavily labouring up in the 
same direction with the last delivery of letters for the day. 
Miss Vancourt’s correspondents were generally very numer- 
ous, — but on this occasion there was only one letter for her, — 
one, neatly addressed, with a small finely engraved crest on 
the flap of the envelope. Maryllia surveyed that envelope and 
crest with disfavour, — she had seen too many of the same 
kind. The smile that brightened her face when she read 
Cicely’s telegram, faded altogether into an expression of cold 
weariness as with a small silver paper-knife she slowly slit the 
closed edges of the unwelcome missive and glanced indiffer* 
ently at its contents. It ran as follows: 

“My dear Miss Maryllia, — I feel sure you do not realise 
the great pain you are inflicting on your aunt, as well as on 


God’s Good Man 


221 


myself, by declining to answer onr letters except by telegram. 
Pray remember that we are quite in the dark as to the state 
of your health, your surroundings and your general well- 
being. Your sudden departure from town was, if you will 
permit me to say so, a most unwise impulse, causing as it has 
done, the greatest perplexity in your own social circle and 
among your hosts of friends. I have done my best to smooth 
matters over, by assuring all enquirers that certain matters 
on your country estate required your personal supervision, but 
rumour, as you know, has many tongues which are not likely 
to be easily silenced. Your aunt was much surprised and 
disturbed to receive from you a box of peacock’s feathers, 
without any word from yourself. She has no doubt you meant 
the gift kindly, but was not the manner of giving somewhat 
strange? — let me say eccentric? I hope you will allow me 
to point out to you that nothing is more fatal to a woman in 
good society than to attain any sort of reputation for eccen- 
tricity. I may take the liberty of saying this to you as an 
old friend, and as one who still holds persistently to the 
dear expectation, despite much discouragement, of being able 
soon to call you by a closer name than mere friendship allows. 
The disagreement between your aunt and yourself should 
surely be a matter of slight duration, and not sufficient in any 
case to warrant your rash decision to altogether resign the 
protection and kindly guardianship which she, on her part, 
has exercised over you for so many years. I cannot too 
strongly impress upon your mind the fatal effect any long 
absence from her is likely to have on your position in society, 
and though as yet you have only been about three weeks away, 
people are talking and will no doubt continue to talk. If you 
find your old home an agreeable change from town life, pray 
allow your aunt to join you there. She will do so, I am sure, 
with pleasure. She misses you very greatly, and I will never 
believe that you would wilfully cause her needless trouble. 
I may not, I know, express my own feelings on the subject, as 
I should probably only incur your scorn or displeasure, but 
simply as an honest man who wishes you nothing but good, 
I ask you quietly to consider to what misrepresentation and 
calumny you voluntarily expose yourself by running away, as 
it were, from a rightful and affectionate protector and second 
mother like your good aunt, and living all alone in the coun- 
try without any one of your immediate circle of friends 
within calling distance. Is there a more compromising or 
more ludicrous position than that of the independent and 


222 


God’s Good Man 


defenceless female? I think not! She is the laughing-stock 
of the clubs, and the perennial joke of the comic press. Pray 
do not place yourself in the same category with the despised 
and unlovely of your sex, but remain on the height where 
Nature placed you, and where your charm and intelligence 
can best secure acknowledgment from the less gifted and for- 
tunate. Entreating your pardon for any word or phrase in 
this letter which may unluckily chance to annoy you, I am, 
my dear Miss Maryllia, — Yours with the utmost devotion, 

“ Roxmouth.” 

“ What a humbug he is ! ” said Maryllia, half aloud, as she 
put the letter back in its envelope and set it aside — “ What 
a soft, smooth, civil, correctly trained humbug! How com- 
pletely he ignores the possibility of my having any intelli- 
gence, even while he asks me to remain ‘ on the height ’ where 
it can best secure acknowledgment! He never appears to 
realise that my intelligence may be of such a quality as to 
enable me to see through him pretty clearly! And so the 
‘ independent and defenceless female’ is the laughing-stock 
of the clubs, is she? Well, I daresay he is quite right there! 
There’s nothing braver for men to do at their clubs than to 
laugh at the ‘ defenceless ’ women who would rather fight the 
world alone and earn their own livelihood, than enter into 
loveless marriages! The quaintest part of the letter is the 
bit about Aunt Emily. Koxmouth must really think me a 
perfect idiot if he dreams that I would accept such a story as 
that she was ‘surprised and disturbed’ at receiving the box 
of peacock’s feathers. Aunt Emily was never ‘ surprised ’ or 
c disturbed’ at anything in her life, I am sure! When poor 
TJncle Ered died, she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes for 
five minutes, and then sat down at her desk to write her orders 
for mourning. And when I spoke my mind to her about 
Eoxmouth, she only smiled and told me not to excite myself. 
Then when I said I had determined to leave her altogether 
and go back to my own home to live, she took it quite easily, 
and merely stated she would have to alter her will. I assured 
her I hoped she would do so at once, as I had no wish to 
benefit by her death. Then she didn’t speak to me for several 
days, and I came away quietly without bidding her good-bye. 
And here I am, — and here I mean to stay ! ” 

She laughed a little, and moving to the open window, looked 
out on the quiet beauty of the landscape. “Yes! — I too will 
become a laughing-stock of the clubs ; — and even I may attain 


God’s Good Man 


223 


the distinction of being accepted as a ‘joke by the comic 
press ’ ! I will be an ‘ independent and defenceless female/ 
and see how I get on! In any case I’d rather be defenceless 
than have Roxmouth as a defender. And I shall not be alone 
here, now that Cicely is coming. Besides, I have two men 
friends in the village, — at least, I think I have! I’m sure of 
one, — old J osey Letherbarrow ! ” The smile lingered on her 
lips, as she still looked out on the lawn and terrace, shadowed 
by the evening dusk, and sweet with the cool perfume of the 
rising dew. “ And the other, — if he should turn out as agree- 
able as he seemed this morning, — why, he is a tower of 
strength so far as respectability is concerned! What better 
protection can an ‘ independent and defenceless female ’ have 
than the minister of the parish? I can go to him for a 
character, ask him for a reference, throw myself and my 
troubles upon him as upon a rock, and make him answer 
for me as an honest and well-intentioned parishioner! And I 
believe he would ‘ speak up ’ for me, as the poor folks say,— 
yes, my Lord Roxmouth ! — I believe he would, — and if he did, 
I’m certain he would speak straight, and not whisper a few 
small poisonous lies round the corner! For I think” — and 
here the train of her reflections wandered away from her aunt 
and her lordly wooer altogether, “yes, — I think Mr. Walden 
is a good man! I was not quite sure about him when I first 
met him, — I thought his eyes seemed deceitful, — so many 
parsons’ eyes are! — but I looked well into them to-day, — and 
they’re not the usual eyes of a parson at all, — they’re just the 
eyes of a British sailor who has watched rough seas all his 
life, — and such eyes are always true ! ” 


XV 


the following Monday afternoon Cicely Bourne, to 
^"whom Walden had so successfully telegraphed Maryl- 
lia’s commands, arrived. She was rather an odd-looking 
young person. Her long thin legs were much too long for the 
shortness of her black cashmere frock, which was made *en 
demoiselle/ after the fashion adhered to in French convents, 
where girls are compelled to look as ugly as possible, in order 
that they may eschew the sin of personal vanity, — her hair, of 
a rich raven black, was plaited in a stiff thick braid resem- 
bling a Chinese pigtail, and was fastened at the end with a 
bow of ribbon, — and a pair of wonderfully brilliant dark eyes 
flashed under her arching brows, suggesting something weird 
and witchlike in their roving glances, and giving an almost 
uncanny expression to her small, sallow face. But she was 
full of the most exuberant vitality, — she sparkled all over 
with it and seemed to exhale it in the mere act of breathing, 
Brimful of delight at the prospect of spending the whole 
summer with her friend and patroness, to whom she owed 
everything, and whom she adored with passionate admiration 
and gratitude, she dashed into the old-world silence and soli- 
tude of Abbot’s Manor like a wild wave of the sea, crested 
with sunshine and bubbling over with ripples of mirth. Her 
incessant chatter and laughter awoke the long-hushed echoes 
of the ancient house to responsive gaiety, — and every pale 
lingering shadow of dullness or loneliness fled away from 
the exhilarating effect of her presence, which acted at once 
as a stimulant and charm to Maryllia, who welcomed her 
arrival with affectionate enthusiasm. 

“ But oh, my dear ! ” she exclaimed — “ What a little school- 
guy they have made of you! You must have grown taller, 
surely, since November when I saw yo£ last? Your frock is 
ever so much too short ! ” 

“I don’t think I’ve grown a bit,” — said Cicely, glancing 
down at her own legs disparagingly — “ But my frock wore 
shabby at the bottom, and the nuns had a fresh hem turned 
up all round. That reduced its length by a couple of inches 

224 


God’s Good Man 


225 


at least. I told them as modestly as I could that my ankles 
were too vastily exposed, but they said it didn’t matter, as I 
was only a day-boarder.” 

Maryllia’s eyebrows went up perplexedly. 

“ I don’t see what that has to do with it,” — she said — 
“ Would you have preferred to live in the Convent altogether, 
dear ? ” 

“ Grand merci ! ” and Cicely made an expressive grimace — 
“ Not I ! I should not have had half as many lessons from 
Gigue, and I should never have been able to write to you 
without the Mere Superieure spying into my letters. That’s 
why none of the girls are allowed to have sealing wax, because 
all their letters are ungummed over a basin of hot water and 
read before going to post. Discipline, discipline! Torque- 
mada’s Inquisition was nothing to it ! Of course I had to tell 
the Mere Superieure that you had sent for me, and that I 
should be away all summer. She asked heaps of questions, 
but she got nothing out of me, so of course she wrote to your 
aunt. But that doesn’t matter, does it ? ” 

“Not in the least,” — answered Maryllia, decisively,— “ My 
aunt has nothing whatever to do with me now, nor I with her. 
I am my own mistress.” 

“ And it becomes you amazingly ! ” declared Cicely — “ I 
never saw you looking prettier! You are just the sweetest 
thing that ever fell out of heaven in human shape! . Oh, 
Maryllia, what a lovely, lovely place this is! And is it all 
yours ? — your very, very own ? ” 

“My very, very own!” and Maryllia, in replying to the 
question, felt a thrill of legitimate pride in the beautiful old 
Tudor house of her ancestors, — “I wish I had never been 
taken away from it! The more I see of it, the more I feel 
I ought not to have left it so long.” 

“ It is real home, sweet home ! ” said Cicely, and her great 
eyes grew suddenly sad and wistful, as she slipped a caressing 
arm round her friend’s waist— “How grateful I am to you 
for asking me to come and stay in it! Because, after all, I 
am only a poor little peasant,— with a musical faculty ! ” 
Maryllia kissed her affectionately. 

“You are a genius, my dear!” she said— “ There’s is no 
higher supremacy. What does Gigue say of you now ? ” 

“ Gigue is satisfied, I think. But I don’t really know. He 
says I’m too precocious — that my voice is a woman’s before 
I’m a girl. It’s abnormal— and I’m abnormal too. I know I 


226 God’s Good Man 

am, — and I know it’s horrid — but I can’t help it! Where’s 
the piano ? ” 

“ There isn’t one in the house,” said Maryllia, smiling; 
“ Abbot’s Manor has always lived about a hundred and fifty 
years behind the times. But I’ve sent for a boudoir grand — 
it will be here this week. Meanwhile, won’t this do?” and 
she pointed to a quaint little instrument occupying a recess 
near the window — “ It’s a spinet of Charles the Second’s 
period •” 

“ Delightful ! ” cried Cicely, ecstatically — “ There’s nothing 
sweeter in the whole world to sing to!” 

Opening the painted lid with the greatest tenderness and 
care, she passed her hands lightly over the spinet’s worn and 
yellow ivory keys and evoked a faint fairy-like tinkling. 

“ Listen ! Isn’t it like the wandering voice of some little 
ghost of the past trying to speak to us ? ” she said — “ And in 
such sweet tune, too ! Poor little ghost ! Shall I sing to you ? 
Shall I tell you that we have a sympathy in common with 
you, even though you are so old and so far, far away ! ” 

Her lips parted, and a pure note, crystal clear, and of such 
silvery softness as to seem more supernatural than human, 
floated upward on the silence. Maryllia caught her breath, 
and listened with a quickly beating heart, — she knew that the 
voice of this child whom she had rescued from a life of misery, 
was a world’s marvel. 

“ Le douce printemps fait naitre, — 

Autant d’amours que de fleurs ; 

Tremblez, tremblez, jeunes coeurs! 

D£s qu’il commence & paraitre 
II faut cesser les froideurs.” 

Here with a sudden brilliant roulade the singer ran up the 
scale to the C in alt, and there paused with a trill as delicious 
and full as the warble of a nightingale. 

“Mais ce qu’il a de douceurs 

Vous codtera cher peut-gtre ! 

Tremblez, tremblez jeunes coeurs, 

Le douce printemps fait naitre, 

Autant d’amours que de fleurs! ” 

_ She ceased. The air, broken into delicate vibrations, car- 
ried the lovely sounds rhythmically outward, onward and into 
unechoing distance. 


God’s Good Man 


227 


She turned and looked at Maryllia — then smiled. 

“ I see you are pleased,” — she said. 

“Pleased! Cicely, I don’t believe affyone was ever bom 
into the world to sing as you sing ! ” 

Cicely looked quaintly meditative. 

“Well, I don’t know about that! You see there have been 
several millions of folks born into the world, and there may 
have been just one naturally created singer among them ! ” 
She laughed, and touched a chord on the spinet. “ The old 
French song exactly suits this old French instrument. I see 
it is an ancient thing of Paris. Gigue says I have improved 
— but he will never admit much, as you know. He has for- 
bidden me to touch the C in alt, and I did it just now. 1 
cannot help it sometimes — it comes so easy. But you must 
scold me, Maryllia darling, when you hear me taking it, — I 
don’t want to strain the vocal cords, and I always forget Pm 
only fourteen; I feel — oh! ever so much older! — ages old, in 
fact ! ” She sighed, and stretched her arms up above her 
head. “What a perfect room this is to sing in! What a 
perfect house! — and what a perfect angel you are to have 
me with you ! ” 

Her eyes filled with sudden tears of emotion, but she quickly 
blinked them away. 

“ Et ce cher Roxmouth ? ” she queried, suddenly, glancing 
appreciatively at the rippling gold-brown lights and shades of 
her friend’s hair, the delicate hues of her complexion, and 
the grace of her form — “ Has he been to see you in this idyllic 
retreat ? ” 

Maryllia gave a slight gesture of wearied impatience. 

“ Certainly not! How can you ask such a question, Cicely! 
I left my aunt on purpose to get rid of him once and for all. 
And he knows it; — yet he has written to me every two days 
regularly since I came here ! ” 

“ Helas ! — ce cher Roxmouth ! ” murmured Cicely, with a 
languid gesture imitative of the 1 society manner ’ of Mrs. 
Fred Vancourt, — “Parfait gentilhomme au bout des ongles!” 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ Yes, — Aunt Emily all over ! ” she said — “ How tired I am 
of that phrase ! She knows as well as anybody that Roxmouth, 
for all his airs of aristocratic propriety, is a social villain of 
the lowest type of modem decadence, yet she would rather see 
me married to him than to any other man she has ever met. 
And why? Simply because he will be a Duke! She would 
like to say to all her acquaintances — ‘ My niece is a Duchess/ 


228 


God’s Good Man 


She would feel a certain fantastic satisfaction in thinking 
that her millions were being used to build up the decayed for- 
tunes of an English nobleman’s family, as well as. to ‘ restore ? 
Roxmouth Castle, which is in a bad state of repair. And she 
would sacrifice my heart and soul and life to such trumpery 
ambitions as these ! ” 

“ Trumpery ambitions ! ” echoed Cicely — ■“ My dear, they 
are ambitions for which nearly all women are willing to 
scramble, fight and die! To be a Duchess! To dwell in an 
ancient 1 restored 9 castle of once proud English nobles ! Saint 
Moses! Who wouldn’t sacrifice such vague matters as heart, 
life and soul for the glory of being called 1 Your Grace ’ by 
obsequious footmen ! My unconventional Maryllia ! You are 
setting yourself in rank, heretical opposition to the conven- 
tionalities of society, and won’t all the little conventional 
minds hate you for it ! 99 

“ It doesn’t matter if they do,” — rejoined Maryllia — “ I have 
never been loved since my father’s death, — so I don’t mind 
being hated.” 

“ 1 love you ! 99 said Cicely, with swift ardour — “ Don’t say 
you have never been loved ! ” 

Maryllia caught her hand tenderly and kissed it. 

“ I was not thinking of you, dear ! 99 she said — ■“ Forgive me ! 
I was thinking of men. They have admired me and flirted 
with me, — many of them have wanted to marry me, in order 
to get hold of Aunt Emily’s fortune with me, — but none of 
them have ever loved me. Cicely, Cicely, I want to be loved ! 99 

“ So do I ! ” said Cicely, with answering light in her eyes — 
“ But I don’t see how it’s going to be done in my case ! You 
may possibly get your wish, but I! — why, my dear, I see 
myself in futuro as a ‘prima donna assoluta’ perhaps, with 
several painted and padded bassi and tenori making sham love 
to me in opera till I get perfectly sick of cuore and amove, and 
cry out for something else by way of a change! I am quite 
positive that love, — love such as we read of in poetry and 
romance, doesn’t really exist! And I have another fixed 
opinion — which is, that the people who write most about it 
have never felt it. One always expresses best, even in a song, 
the emotions one has never experienced.” 

Maryllia lookd at her in a little wonder. 

“ Do you really think that ? ” 

“ I do ! It’s not one of Gigue’s sayings, though I know I 
often echo Gigue ! ” 

She went to the window. “How lovely the garden is! 


God’s Good Man 


229 


Come out on the lawn, Mary Ilia, and let us talk ! ” And as 
they sauntered across the grass together with arms round each 
other’s waists, she chattered on — “People who write books 
and music are generally lonely, — and they write best about 
love because they need it. They fancy it must be much better 
than it is. But, after all, the grandest things go unloved. 
Look at the sky, how clear it is and pure. Is it loved by any 
other sky that we know of? And the sun up there, all alone 
in its splendour, — I wonder if any other sun loves it? There 
are so many lonely things in the universe! And it seems to 
me that the loneliest are always the loveliest and grandest. It 
is only stupid ephemera that are gregarious. Worms crawl 
along in masses, — mites swarm in a cheese — flies stick in 
crowds on jam — and brainless people shut themselves up all 
together within the walls of a city. I’d rather be an eagle 
than a sparrow, — a star than one of a thousand bonfire sparks, 
• — and as a mere woman, I would rather ten thousand times 
live a solitary life by myself till I die, than be married to a 
rascal or a fool ! ” 

“ Exactly my sentiments,” — said Maryllia — “ Only you put 
them more poetically than I can. Do you know, Cicely, you 
talk very oddly sometimes? — very much in advance of your 
age, I mean?” 

“ Do I ? ” And Cicely’s tone expressed a mingling of sur- 
prise and penitence — “ I didn’t know it. But I suppose I 
really can’t help it, Maryllia ! I was a very miserable child — 
and miserable children age rapidly. Perhaps I shall get 
younger as I grow older! You must remember that at eleven 
years old I was scrubbing floors like any charwoman in the 
Convent for two centimes an hour. I gained a lot of worldly 
wisdom that way by listening to the talk of the nuns, which is 
quite as spiteful and scandalous as anything one hears in out- 
side 4 wicked ’ society. Then I got into the Quartier Latin 
set with Gigue, who picked me up because he heard me sing- 
ing in the street, — and altogether my experiences of life 
haven’t been toys and bonbons. I know I think ‘ old ’ — and 
I’m sure I feel old ! ” 

“ Not when you play or sing,” suggested Maryllia. 

“ No — not then — never then ! Then, all the youth of the 
world seems to rush into me, — it tingles in my fingers, and 
throbs in my throat! I feel as if I could reach heaven with 
sound! — yes! I feel that I could sing to God Himself, if He 
would only listen ! ” 

Her eyes glowed with passion, — the plainness of her features 


230 


God’s Good Man 


was transformed into momentary beauty. Maryllia was silent. 
She knew that the aspirations of genius pent up in this elf-like 
girl were almost too strong for her, and that the very excit- 
ability and sensitiveness of her nature were such as to need 
the greatest care and tenderness in training and controlling. 
Tactfully she changed the conversation to ordinary subjects, 
and in a little while Cicely had learned all that Maryllia 
herself knew about the village of St. Rest and its inhabitants. 
She was considerably interested in the story of the rescue 
of the ‘Five Sister ’ beeches, and asked with a touch of 
anxiety, what had become of the dismissed agent, Oliver 
Leach? 

“ Oh, he is still in the neighbourhood,” — said Maryllia, in- 
differently — ■“ He works for Sir Morton Pippitt, and I believe 
has found a home at Badsworth. His accounts are not yet 
all handed in to my solicitors. But I have a new agent now, 
— a Mr. Stanways — he is just married to quite a nice young 
woman, — and he has already begun work. Mr. Stanways has 
splendid recommendations — so that will be all right.” 

“No doubt — so far as Mr. Stanways himself is concerned 
it will be all right,” — rejoined Cicely, musingly — “ But if, as 
you say, the man Oliver Leach cursed you, it isn’t pleasant to 
think he is hanging around here.” 

“ He isn’t hanging round anywhere,” — declared Maryllia, 
easily — “ He is out of this beat altogether. He cursed me 
certainly, — but he was in a temper, — and I should say that 
curses come naturally to him. But, as the clergyman was 
present at the time, the curse couldn’t take any effect.” She 
laughed. “You know Satan always runs away from the 
Church.” 

“ Who is the clergyman, and what is he like ? ” asked Cicely. 

“ He’s not at all disagreeable ” — answered Maryllia, care- 
lessly — “ Rather stiff perhaps and old-fashioned, — but he seems 
to be a great favourite with all his parishioners. His name 
is John Walden. He has restored the church here, quite at 
his own expense, and according to the early original design. 
It is really quite wonderful. When I was a child here, I only 
remember it as a ruin, but now people come from far and 
near to see it. It will please you immensely.” 

“ But you don’t go to it,” observed Cicely, suggestively. 

“ No. I haven’t attended a service there as yet. But I 
don’t say I never will attend one. That will depend on cir* 
cumstances.” 


God’s Good Man 


231 

“ I remember you always hated parsons,” said Cicely, 
thoughtfully. 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ Yes, I always did! ” 

44 And you always will, I suppose ? ” 

44 Well, I expect I shall have to tolerate Mr. Walden,” — 
Maryllia answered lightly, — “ Because he’s really my nearest 
neighbour. But he’s not so bad as most of his class.” 

“ I daresay he’s a better type of man than Lord Roxmouth,” 
said Cicely. “ By the way, Maryllia, that highly distinguished 
nobleman has spread about a report that you are 4 peculiar/ 
simply because you won’t marry him? The very nuns at the 
Convent have heard this, and it does make me so angry! For 
when people get hold of the word 4 peculiar,’ it is made to 
mean several things.” 

44 I know ! ” and for a moment Maryllia’s fair brows clouded 
with a shadow of perplexity and annoyance — “It is a word 
that may pass for madness, badness, or any form of social 
undesirability. But I don’t mind! I’m quite aware that 
Roxmouth, if he cannot marry me, will slander me. It’s a 
way some modern men have of covering their own rejection 
and defeat. The woman in question is branded through the 
4 smart set ’ as 4 peculiar,’ 4 difficult,’ 4 impossible to deal with ’ 
— oh yes ! — I know it all ! But I’m prepared for it — and just 
to forestall Roxmouth a little, I’m going to have a few people 
down here by way of witnesses to my 4 peculiar ’ mode of life. 
Then they can go back to London and talk.” 

44 They can, and they will, — you may be sure of that ! ” 
said Cicely, satirically — 44 Is this a 4 dressed ’ county, Maryl- 
lia?” 

Maryllia gave vent to a peal of laughter. 

44 1 should say not, — but I really don’t know ! ” she replied, 
— 44 People have called on me, but I have not, as yet, returned 
their calls. We’ll do that in this coming week. The only 
person I have seen, who poses as a 4 county’ lady, is an 
elderly spinster named Tabitha Pippitt, only daughter of Sir 
Morton Pippitt, who is a colonial manufacturer, and, there- 
fore, not actually in the 4 county’ at all. Miss Tabitha was 
certainly not 4 dressed,’ she was merely covered.” 

44 That’s the very height of propriety ! ” declared Cicely — 
“For, after all, covering alone is necessary. 4 Dress,’ in the 
full sense of the word, implies vanity and all its attendant 
sins. Gigue says you can always pick out a very dull, re- 


232 


God’s Good Man 


spectable woman by the hideousness of her clothes. I expect 
Miss Tabitha is dull.” 

“ She is — most unquestionably ! But Fm afraid she is only 
a reflex of country life generally, Cicely. Country life is dull, 
— especially in England.” 

“ Then why do you go in for it ? ” queried Cicely, arching 
her black brows perplexedly. 

“ Simply to escape something even duller,” — laughed 
Maryllia — “ London society and its 1 Souls ’ ! ” 

Cicely laughed too, and shrugged her shoulders expressively. 
She understood all that was implied. And with her whole 
heart she rejoiced that her friend whom she loved with an 
almost passionate adoration and gratitude, had voluntarily 
turned her back on the ‘ Smart Set/ and so, of her own accord, 
instead of through her godfathers and godmothers, had 1 re- 
nounced the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of 
this wicked world and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.’ 

Within a very few days St. Rest became aware of Cicely’s 
quaint personality, for she soon succeeded in making herself 
familiar with everybody in the place. She had a knack of 
winning friends. She visited old Josey Letherbarrow, and 
made him laugh till he nearly choked, so that Maryllia had to 
pat him vigorously on the back to enable him to recover his 
breath — she cut jokes with Mrs. Tapple, — chatted with the 
sexton, Adam Frost, and scattered ‘'sweeties’ galore among 
all his children, — and she furthermore startled the village 
choir at practice by suddenly flitting into the church and 
asking Miss Eden, the schoolmistress, to allow her to play 
the organ accompaniment, and on Miss Eden’s consenting to 
this proposition, she played in such a fashion that the church 
seemed filled with musical thunder and the songs of angels, 
— and the village choristers, both girls and boys, became 
awestruck and nervous, and huddled themselves together in 
a silent group, afraid to open their mouths lest a false note 
should escape, and spoil the splendour of the wonderful har- 
mony that so mysteriously charmed their souls. And then, 
calming the passion of the music down, she turned with 
gentlest courtesy to Miss Eden, and asked: ‘What were the 
children going to sing ? ’ — whereupon, being told that it was 
a hymn called 1 The Lord is my Shepherd,’ she so very sweetly 
entreated them to sing it with her, that none of them could 
refuse. And she led them all with wondrous care and patience, 
giving to the very simple tune, a tender and noble pathos 
such as they had never heard before, yet which they uncon- 


God’s Good Man 233 

sciously absorbed into their own singing, as they lifted up 
their youthful voices in tremulous unison. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me down to lie, 

In pleasant fields where the lilies grow. 

And the river runneth by. 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; He feedeth me 
In the depth of a desert land. 

And lest I should in the darkness slip. 

He holdeth me by the hand. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. 

My mind on Him is stayed, 

And though through the Valley of Death I walk, 

I shall not be afraid. 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; O Shepherd sweet. 

Leave me not here to stray; 

But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, 

And keep me there, I pray! ” 

John Walden, passing through the churchyard just at this 
time, heard the rhythmic rise and fall of the quaint old melody 
with a strange thrill at his heart. He had listened to the 
self-same hymn over and over again, — every year the school- 
children re-studied and re-sang it, — but there was something 
altogether new in its harmony this time, — something appealing 
and pathetic which struck to the inmost core of his sensitive 
nature. Noiselessly, he entered the church, and for a moment 
or two stood unobserved, watching the little scene before him. 
Cicely was at the organ, and her hands still rested on the 
keys, but she was speaking to the members of the choir. 

“ That is very nicely done,” — she said, encouragingly — “ But 
you must try and keep more steadily together in tune, must 
they not, Miss Eden ? ” — and she turned to the schoolmistress 
at her side, who, with a smile, agreed. “ You ” — and she 
touched pretty Susie Prescott on the arm, — “ You sing de- 
lightfully ! It is a little voice — but so very sweet ! ” 

Susie blushed deeply and curtsied. It had got about in the 
village that Miss Vancourt’s young friend from Paris was a 
musical 1 prodigy/ and praise from her was something to be 
remembered. 

“ Now listen! ” went on Cicely — “ I’m not going to sing full 
voice, because I’m not allowed to yet, — but this is how that 


234 


God’s Good Man 


hymn should go ! ” And her pure tones floated forth pianis c 
simo, with slow and tender solemnity : — 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; O Shepherd sweet. 

Leave me not here to stray; 

But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, 

And keep me there, I pray! 

Amen! ” 

Silence followed. The children stood wonder-struck, and 
Mis3 Eden’s eyes filled with emotional tears. 

“ How beautiful ! ” she murmured — “ How very beautiful ! ” 

Cicely rose from the organ-stool, and turned round. 

“ Here is Mr. Walden,” she said, in quite a matter-of-fact 
way as she perceived him. “ It is Mr. Walden, isn’t it? ” 

“Yes, it is,” replied John, advancing with a smile — “And 
very fortunate Mr. Walden is to have heard such lovely 
singing ! ” 

“ Oh, that’s not lovely,” said Cicely, carelessly — “ I was 
only humming the last verse, just to put the expression right. 
I thought it must be you! — though, of course, as I have not 
been introduced to you, I couldn’t be sure! Maryllia — Miss 
Viancourt — has told me all about you, — and I know she has 
written twice since I’ve been here to ask you up to the Manor 
— once to tea, and once to dinner. Why haven’t you come ? ” 

Walden was slightly embarrassed by this point-blank ques- 
tion. It was perfectly true he had received two invitations 
from the lady of the Manor, and had refused both. Why he 
had refused, he could not himself have told. 

“ I suppose you didn’t want to meet me ! ” said Cicely, 
showing all her white teeth in a flashing smile — “ But there’s 
no escape for it, you see, — here I am! I’m not such a rascal 
as I look, though! I’ve been playing accompaniments for the 
children ! — go on singing, please ! ” — and she addressed Miss 
Eden and Susie Prescott, who collecting their straying 
thoughts, began hesitatingly to resume the interrupted prac- 
tice — “ It’s a nice little organ — very full and sweet. The 
church is perfectly exquisite! I come in every day to look 
at it except Sundays.” 

“ Why except Sundays? ” asked Walden, amused. 

She gave him a quaint side-glance. 

“ I’ll tell you some day, — not now ! ” — she answered — “ This 
is not the fitting time or place.” She moved to the altar rails, 
and hung over them, looking at the alabaster sarcophagus. 


God’s Good Man 


235 


* This thing has a perfect fascination for me ! ” she went on 
— “ I can’t bear not to know whose bones are inside ! I wonder 
^ou haven’t opened it.” 

“It was not meant to he opened by those who closed it,” 
said Walden, quietly. 

Cicely drooped her gipsy-bright eyes. 

“ That’s one for me ! ” she thought — “ He’s just like what 
Maryllia says he is, — very certain of his own mind, and not 
likely to move out of his own way.” 

“ I think,” pursued Walden — “ if you knew that someone 
very dear to you had been laid in that sarcophagus ‘ to eternal 
rest,’ you would resent any disturbance of even the mere dust 
of what was once life, — would you not ? ” 

“ I might ; ” said Cicely dubiously — “ But I have never had 
any 1 someone very dear to me 9 except Maryllia V ancourt. 
And if she died, I should die too ! ” 

John was silent, but he looked at her with increased interest 
and kindliness. 

They walked out of the church together, and once in the 
open air, he became politely conventional. 

“And how is Miss Vancourt?” he enquired. 

“ She is very well indeed,” — replied Cicely — “ But tremen- 
dously busy just now with no end of household matters. The 
new agent, Mr. Stanways, is going over every yard of the 
Abbot’s Manor property with her, and she is making any 
quantity of new rules. All the tenants’ rents are to be re- 
duced, for one thing — I know that. Then there are a lot of 
London people coming down to stay — big house-parties in 
relays, — I’ve helped write all the invitations. We shall be 
simply crowded at the end of June and all July. We mean 
to be very gay ! ” 

“And you will like that, of course?” queried Walden, in- 
dulgently, while conscious of a little sense of hurt and annoy- 
ance, though he knew not why. 

“ Naturally! ” and Cicely shrugged her shoulders carelessly, 
“Doesn’t the Bible say ‘the laughter of fools is like the 
crackling of thorns under a pot ’ ? I love to set the pot down 
and hear the thorns crackle ! ” 

What a weird girl she was! He looked at her in mute 
amaze, and she smiled. 

“ Do come up to tea some afternoon ! ” she said coaxingly, 
“We should be so glad to see you! I know Maryllia would 
like it — she thinks you are rather rude, you know! I’m to be 
here all the summer, but I’ll try to be good and not say things 


God’s Good Man 


236 

to vex you. And as you’re a clergyman, I can tell you all 
about myself — like the confessional secrets! And when you 
hear some of my experiences, you won’t wonder a bit at my 
queer ways. I can’t be like other girls of my age, — I really 
can't! — my life won’t let me!” 

Her tone was one of light banter, but her eyes were wistful 
and pathetic. Walden was conscious of a sudden sympathy 
with this wild little soul of song, and taking her hand, pressed 
it kindly. 

“Wait till I see some of your ‘ queer ways,’ as you call 
them ! ” he said, with a genial laugh — “ I know you sing very 
beautifully — is that a ‘ queer way ’ ? 99 

Cicely shook her mop-like tresses of hair back over her 
shoulders with a careless gesture. 

“ It is — to people who can’t do it ! ” she said. “ Surely you 
know that? For example, if you preach very well — I don’t 
know that you do, because I’ve never heard you, but Mary Ilia’s 
housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, says you’ve got ‘ a mouth of angels 9 
— she does really! ” and, as Walden laughed, she laughed with 
him — “Well, as I say, if you preach very well with a mouth 
of angels, there must be several parsons round here who 
haven’t got that mouth, and who say of you, of course meta- 
phorically : ‘ He hath a devil 9 l Isn’t it so ? ” 

John hesitated. 

“Ho doubt opinions differ,” he began. 

. “Oh, of course! — you can get out of it that way, if you 
like ! 99 she retorted, gaily — “ You won’t say uncharitable things 
of the rest of your brethren if you can help it, but you know 
— yes, you must know that parsons are as jealous of each other 
and as nasty to each other as actors, singers, writers, or any 
other ‘professional’ persons in the world. In fact, I believe 
if you were to set two spiteful clergymen nagging at each 
other, they’d beat any two ‘leading ladies’ on the operatic 
stage, for right-down malice and meanness ! ” 

“The conversation is growing quite personal!” said Wal- 
den, a. broad smile lighting up his fine soft eyes — “Shall we 
finish it at the Manor when I come up to tea ? ” 

“But are you really coming?” queried Cicely — “And 
when ? ” 

“ Suppose I say this afternoon ” he began. Cicely 

clapped her hands. 

“ Good ! I’ll scamper home and tell Maryllia ! I’ll say I 
have met you, and that I’ve been as impudent as I possibly 
could be to you ” 


God’s Good Man 


237 


“No, don’t say that!” laughed Walden — “Say that I have 
found you to be a very delightful and original young lady ” 

“ I’ni not a young lady,” — said Cicely, decisively — “ I was 
born a peasant on the sea-coast of Cornwall — and I’m glad of 
it. A ‘young lady’ nowadays means a milliner’s apprentice 
or a draper’s model. I am neither. I am just a girl — and 
hope, if I live, to be a woman. I’ll take my own ideas of a 
suitable message from you to Maryllia — don’t you bother ! '’ 
And she nodded sagaciously. “ I won’t make ructions, I 
promise ! Come about five ! ” 

She waved her hand and ran off, leaving Walden in a mood 
between perplexity and amusement. She was certainly an 
‘ original,’ and he hardly knew what to make of her. There 
was something ‘uncanny’ and goblin-like in her appearance, 
and yet her sallow face had a certain charm when the smile 
illumined it, and the light of aspiration burned up in the 
large wild eyes. In any case, she had persuaded him in a 
moment, as it were, and almost involuntarily, to take tea at 
the Manor that afternoon. Why he had consented to do what 
he had hitherto refused, he could not imagine. Cicely’s re- 
mark that Miss Yancourt thought him ‘rather rude,’ worried 
him a little. 

“ Perhaps I have been rude ” — he reflected, uneasily — •“ But 
I am not a society man; — I’m altogether out of my element 
in the company of ladies — and it seemed so much better that 
I should avoid being drawn into any intimacy with persons 
who are not likely to have anything in common with me — but 
of course I ought to be civil — in fact, I suppose I ought to 
be neighbourly ■” 

Here a sudden irritation against the nature of his own 
thoughts disturbed him. He was not arguing fairly with 
himself, and he knew it. He was perfectly aware that ever 
since the day of their meeting in the village post-office, he 
had wished to see Miss Yancourt again. He had hoped she 
might pass the gate of the rectory, or perhaps even look into 
his garden for a moment, — but his expectation had not been 
realised. He had heard of Cicely Bourne’s arrival, — and he 
had received two charmingly-worded notes from Maryllia, 
inviting him to the Manor, — which invitations, as has already 
been stated, he had, with briefest courtesy, declined. Now, 
why, — if he indeed wished to see her again, — had he deliber- 
ately refused the opportunities given him of doing so? He 
could not answer this at all satisfactorily to his own mind, 
and he was considerably annoyed with himself to be forced 


God’s Good Man 


238 

to admit the existence of certain portions of his mental com* 
position which were apparently not to be probed by logic, or 
measured by mathematics. 

“Well, at any rate, as I have promised the little singer, I 
can go up to tea just this once, and have done with it,” he 
decided — “ I shall then be exonerated from ‘ rudeness ’ — and 
I can explain to Miss Vancourt — quite kindly and courteously 
of course — that I am not a visiting man, — that my habits are 
rather those of a recluse, and then — for the future — she will 
understand.” 

Cicely Bourne, meanwhile, on her way back to the Manor 
through the fields, paused many times to gather cowslips, 
which were blooming by thousands in the grass at her feet, 
and as she recklessly pulled up dozens of the pale-green stems, 
weighted with their nodding golden honey-bells, she thought 
a good deal about John Walden. 

“ Maryllia never told me he was handsome,” — she mused ; 
“But he is! I wonder why she didn’t mention it? So odd 
of her, — because really there are very few good-looking men 
anywhere, and one in the shape of a parson is a positive 
rarity and ought to go on exhibition ! He’s clever too — and — 
obstinate? Yes, I should say he was obstinate! But he has 
kind eyes. And he isn’t married. What a comfort that is! 
Parsons are uninteresting enough in themselves as a rule, but 
their wives are the last possibility in the way of dullness. 
Oh, that honeysuckle ! ” And she sprang over the grass to the 
corner of a hedge where a long trail of the exquisitely-scented 
flower hung temptingly, as it seemed within reach, but when 
she approached it, she found it just too high above her to be 
plucked from the bough where its tendrils twined. Looking 
up at it, she carolled softly: 

“O Fortune capricieuse! 

Comme tu es cruelle! 

Pourquoi moques-tu ton esclave 
Qui sert un destin immortel! ” 

Here a sudden rustle in the leaves on the other side of the 
hedge startled her, and a curious-looking human head adorned 
profusely with somewhat disordered locks of red hair perked 
up enquiringly c Cicely jumped hack with an exclamation. 

u Saint Moses ! What is it?” 

<c It is me ! Merely me ! ” and Sir Morton Pippitt’s quon- 
dam guest, Mr. Julian Adderley, rose to his full lanky height, 


God’s Good Man 


239 


and turned his flaccid face of more or less comic melancholy 
upon her — “ Pray do not be alarmed ! I have been reposing 
under the trees, — and I was, or so I imagine, in a brief slum- 
ber, when some dulcet warblings as of a nightingale awoke 
me ” — here, stooping to the ground for his hat, he secured it, 
and waved it expressively — “and I have, I fear, created some 
dismay in the mind of the interesting young person who, if I 
mistake not, is a friend of Miss Vancourt?” 

Cicely surveyed him with considerable amusement. 

“ Never mind who I am ! ” she said, coolly — “ Tell me who 
you are! My faith! — you are as rough all over as a bear! 
What have you been doing to yourself? Your clothes are 
covered with leaves ! ” 

“Even as a Babe in the Wood!” responded Adderley, 
“ Yes ! — it is so ! ” and he began to pick off delicately the 
various burs and scraps of forest debris which had collected 
and clung to his tweed suit during his open-air siesta — “ To 
speak truly, I am a trespasser in these domains, — they are the 
Manor woods, I know, — forbidden precincts, and possibly 
guarded by spring-guns. But I heeded not the board which 
speaks of prosecution. I came to gather bluebells, — innocent 
bluebells! — merely that and no more, to adorn my humble 
cot, — I have a cot not far from here. And as for my identity, 
my name is Adderley — Julian Adderley — a poor scribbler of 
rhymes — a votre service!” 

He waved his hat with a grand flourish again, and smiled. 

“ Oh I know ! ” said Cicely — “ Maryllia has spoken of you — 
you’ve taken a cottage here for the summer. Pick that bit 
of honeysuckle for me, will you? — that long trail just hang- 
ing over you ! ” 

“With pleasure!” and he gathered the coveted spray and 
handed it to her. 

“ Thanks ! ” and she smiled appreciatively as she took it. 
“How did you get into that wood? Bid you jump the 
hedge ? ” 

“ I did ! ” replied Adderley. 

“Could you jump it again?” 

“ Most assuredly ! ” 

“Then do it!” 

Whereupon Adderley clapped his hat on his head, and 
resting a hand firmly on one of the rough posts which sup- 
ported the close green barrier between them, vaulted lightly 
over it and stood beside her. 

“Not badly done,” — said Cicely, eyeing him quizzically— 


240 


God’s Good Man 


ie for 1 a poor scribbler of rhymes ’ as you call yourself. Most 
men who moon about and write verse are too drunken and 
vicious to even see a hedge, — much less jump over it.” 

“ Oh, say not so ! ” exclaimed Adderley — “ You are too 
young to pass judgment on the gods ! ” 

“ The gods ! ” exclaimed Cicely — “ Whatever are you talk- 
ing about? The gods^of Greece? They were an awful lot — 
perfectly awful! They wouldn’t have been admitted even 
into modern society, and that’s bad enough. I don’t think the 
worst woman that ever dined at a Paris restaurant with an 
English Cabinet Minister would have spoken to Venus, par 
exemple. I’m sure she wouldn’t. She’d have drawn the line 
there.” 

“ Gracious Heavens ! ” and Adderley stared in wonderment 
at his companion, first up, then down, — at her wild hair, now 
loosened from its convent form of pigtail, and scarcely re- 
strained by the big sun-hat which was tied on anyhow, — at 
her great dark eyes, — at her thin angular figure and long 
scraggy legs, — legs which were still somewhat too visible, 
though since her arrival at Abbot’s Manor Maryllia had made 
some thoughtful alterations in the dress of her musical 
protegee which had considerably improved her appearance — • 
“Is it possible to hear such things ” 

“ Why, of course it is, as you’ve got ears and have heard 
them ! ” said Cicely, with a laugh — “ Don’t ask ‘ is it possible ’ 
to do a thing when you’ve done it! That’s not logical, — and 
men do pride themselves on their logic, though I could never 
find out why. Do you like cowslips ? ” And she thrust the 
great bunch she had gathered up against his nose — “ There’s 
a wordless poem for you ! ” 

Inhaling the fresh fine odour of the field blossoms, he still 
looked at her in amazement, she meeting his gaze without the 
least touch of embarrassment. 

“ You can walk home with me, if you like ! ” — she observed 
condescendingly — “ I won’t promise to ask you into the 
Manor, because perhaps Maryllia won’t want you, and I dare- 
say she won’t approve of my picking up a young man in the 
woods. But it’s rather fun to talk to a poet, — I’ve never met 
one before. They don’t come out in Paris. They live in holes 
and corners, drinking absinthe to keep off hunger.” 

“ Alas, that is so ! ” and Adderley began to keep pace with 
the thin black-stockinged legs that were already starting off 
through the long grass and flowers — “ The arts are at a dis- 


God’s Good Man 


241 

count nowadays. Poetry is the last thing people want to 
read.” 

11 Then why do you write it ? ” and Cicely turned a sharp 
glance of enquiry upon him — •“ What’s the good?” 

“ There you offer me a problem Miss — er — Miss ” 

u Bourne,” — finished Cicely — “ Don’t fight with my name— 
it’s quite easy — though I don’t know how I got it. I ought to 
have been a Tre or a Pol — I was born in Cornwall. Never 
mind that, — go on with the ‘ problem.’ ” 

“ True — go on with the problem,” — said Julian vaguely, 
taking off his hat and raking his hair with his fingers as he 
was wont to do when at all puzzled — “ The problem is — ‘ why 
do I write poetry if nobody wants to read it’ — and ‘ what’s 
the good’ ? Now, in the first place, I will reply that I am 
not sure I write ‘ poetry.’ I try to express my identity in 
rhythm and rhyme — but after all, that expression of myself 
may be prose, and wholly without interest to the majority. 
You see ? I put it to you quite plainly. Then as to ‘ what’s 
the good ? ’ — I would argue ‘ what’s the bad ? ’ So far, I live 
quite harmlessly. From the unexpected demise of an uncle 
whom I never saw, I have a life-income of sixty pounds a 
year. I am happy on that — I desire no more than that. On 
that I seek to evolve myself into something — from a nonentity 
into shape and substance — and if, as is quite possible, there 
can be no ‘good,’ there may be a certain less of ‘bad’ than 
might otherwise chance to me. What think you ? ” 

Cicely surveyed him scrutinisingly. 

“I’m not at all sure about that” — she said — “Poets have 
all been doubtful specimens of humanity at their best. You 
see their lives are entirely occupied in writing what isn’t 
true — and of course it tells ’ on them in the long run. They 
deceive others first, and then they deceive themselves, though 
in their fits of ‘ inspiration ’ as they call it, they may, while 
weaving a thousand lies, accidentally hit on one truth. But 
the lies chiefly predominate. Dante, for example, was a per- 
fectly brazen liar. He didn't go to Hell, or Purgatory, or 
Paradise — and he didn't bother himself about Beatrice at all. 
He married someone else and had a family. Nothing could 
be more commonplace. He invented his Inferno in order to 
put his enemies there, all roasting, boiling, baking or freezing. 
It was pure personal spite — and it is the very force of his 
vindictiveness that makes the Inferno the best part of his 
epic. The portraits of Dante alone are enough to show you 
the sort of man he was. What a creature to meet in a dark 
lane at midnight!” 


242 


God’s Good Man 


Here she made a grimace, drawing her mouth down into 
the elongated frown of the famous Florentine, with such an 
irresistibly comic effect that Adderley gave way to a peal of 
hearty, almost boyish laughter. 

“ That’s right ! ” said Cicely approvingly — “ That’s you, you 
know! It’s natural to laugh at your age — you’re only about 
six or seven-and-twenty, aren’t you?” 

“ I shall be twenty-seven in August,” — he said with a swift 
return to solemnity — “ That is, as you will admit, getting on 
towards thirty.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! Everybody’s getting on towards thirty, of 
course — or towards sixty, or towards a hundred. I shall be 
fifteen in October, but 6 you will admit ’ ” — here she mimicked 
his voice and accent — “that I am getting on towards a 
hundred. Some folks think I’ve turned that already, and that 
I’m entering my second century, I talk so ‘ old.’ But my talk 
is nothing to what I feel — I feel — oh ! ” and she gave a kind 
of angular writhe to her whole figure — “like twenty Methu- 
salehs in one girl ! ” 

“You are an original!” — said Julian, nodding at her with 
an air of superior wisdom — “ That’s what you are ! ” 

“ Like you. Sir Moon-Calf ” — said Cicely — “ The word 
* moon-calf,’ you know, stands for poet — it means a human 
calf that grazes on the moon. Naturally the animal never 
gets fat, — nor will you ; it always looks odd — and so will you ; 
it never does anything useful, — nor will you; and it puts a 
kind of lunar crust over itself, under which crust it writes 
verses. When you break through its crust you find some- 
thing like a man, half-asleep — not knowing whether he’s man 
or boy, and uncertain whether to laugh or be serious till some 
girl pokes fun at him — and then ” 

“And then?” — laughed Adderley, entering vivaciously into 
her humour — “ What next?” 

“ This, next ! ” — and Cicely pelted him full in the face with 
one of her velvety cowslip-bunches — “ And this, — catch me if 
you can 1 ” 

Away she flew over the grass, with Adderley after her. 
Through tall buttercups and field daisies they raced each other 
like children, — startling astonished bees from repasts in clover- 
cups — and shaking butterflies away from their amours on the 
starwort and celandines. The private gate leading into Abbot’s 
Manor garden stood open, — Cicely rushed in, and shut it 
against her pursuer who reached it almost at the same in- 
stant. 


God’s Good Man 


243 

“Too bad!” be cried laughingly — “You mustn’t keep me 
out ! I’m bound to come inside ! ” 

“Why?” demanded Cicely, breathless with her run, but 
looking all the better for the colour in her cheeks and the 
light in her eyes — “I don’t see the line of argument at all. 
Your hair is simply dreadful! You look like Pan, heated in 
the pursuit of a coy nymph of Delphos. If you only wore 
skins and a pair of hoofs, the resemblance would be perfect ! ” 
“ My dear Cicely ! ” said a dulcet voice at this moment, — 
“Where have you been all the morning! How do you do, 
Mr. Adderley? Won’t you come in?” 

Adderley took off his hat, as Maryllia came across to the 
jgate from the umbrageous shadow of a knot of pine-trees, 
looking the embodiment of fresh daintiness, in a soft white 
gown trimmed with wonderfully knotted tufts of palest rose 
ribbon, and wearing an enchanting ‘poke’ straw hat with a 
careless knot of pink hyacinths tumbling against her lovely 
hair. She was a perfect picture ‘ after Romney,’ and Adderley 
thought she knew it. But there he was wrong. Maryllia 
knew little and cared less about her personal appearance. 

“ Where have you been ? ” she repeated, taking Cicely round 
the waist — “You wild girl! Do you know it is lunch time? 
I had almost given you up. Spruce said you had gone into 
the village — but more than that she couldn’t tell me.” 

“ I did go to the village,” — said Cicely — “ and I went into 
the church, and played the organ, and helped the children 
sing a hymn. And I met the parson, Mr. Walden, and had a 
talk with him. Then I started home across the fields, and 
found this man ” — and she indicated Adderley with a careless 
nod of her head — “ asleep in a wood. I almost promised him 

some lunch — I didn’t quite ” 

“ My dear Miss Vancourt,” — protested Adderley — “ Pray do 
not think of such a thing! — I would not intrude upon you in 
this unceremonious way for the world!” 

“Why not?” said Maryllia, smiling graciously — “It will 
be a pleasure if you will stay to luncheon with us. Cicely has 
carte blanche here you know — genius must have its way! ” 

“ Of course it must ! ” — agreed Cicely — “ If genius wants to 
stand on its head, it must be allowed to make that exhibition 
of itself lest it should explode. If genius asks the lame, halt, 
blind and idiotic into the ancestral halls of Abbot’s Manor, 
then the lame, halt, blind and idiotic are bound to come. If 
genius summons the god Pan to pipe a roundelay, pipings 
there shall be! Shall there not, Mr. Pan Adderley?” 


244 


God’s Good Man 


Her eyes danced with mirth and mischief, as they flashed 
from his face to Maryllia’s. “ Genius,” — she continued — “ can 
even call forth a parson from the vasty deep if it chooses to 
do so, — Mr. Walden is coming to tea this afternoon.” 

“ Indeed ! ” And Maryllia’s sweet voice was a trifle cold. 
“ Did you invite him. Cicely ? ” 

“ Yes. I told him that you thought it rather rude of him 
not to have come before ” 

“ Oh Cicely ! ” said Maryllia reproachfully — “ You should 
not have said that ! ” 

“Why not? You did think him rude, — and so did I, — to 
refuse two kind invitations from you. Anyhow he seemed 
sorry, and said he’d make up for it this afternoon. He’s 
really quite good-looking.” 

“Quite — quite!” agreed Julian Adderley — “I considered 
him exceptionally so when I first saw him in his own church, 
opposing a calm front to the intrusive pomposity and appall- 
ing ignorance of our venerable acquaintance. Sir Morton. 
Pippitt. I decided that I had found a Man. So new! — so 
fresh ! That is why I took a cottage for the summer close by, 
that I might be near the rare specimen ! ” 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ Are you not a man yourself ? ” she said. 

“ Hot altogether ! ” he admitted, — “ I am but half -grown. 
I am a raw and unpleasing fruit even to my own palate. John 
Walden is a ripe and mellow creature, — moreover, he seems 
still ripening in constant sunshine. I go every Sunday to hear 
him preach, because he reminds me of so much that I had 
forgotten.” 

Here they went into luncheon. Maryllia threw ofi her hat 
as she seated herself at the head of the table, ruffling her hair 
with the action into prettier waves of brown-gold. Her cheeks 
were softly flushed, — her blue eyes radiant. 

“ You are a better parishioner than I am, Mr. Adderley ! ” — 
she said — “ I have not been to church once since I came home. 
I never go to church.” 

“Naturally! I quite understand! Pew people of any edu- 
cation or intelligence can stand it nowadays,” he replied — 
“ The Christian myth is well-nigh exploded. Yet one cannot 
help having a certain sympathy and interest in men, who, like 
Mr. Walden, appear to still honestly believe in it.” 

“The Christian myth!” echoed Cicely — “My word! You 
do lay down the law ! Where should we be without the ‘ myth 9 
I wonder ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


245 


“ Pretty much where we are now,” — said Julian — “ Two 
thousand years of the Christian dispensation leaves the world 
still pagan. Self-indulgence is still paramount. Wealth still 
governs both classes and masses. Politics are still corrupt. 
Trade still plays its old game of ‘ beggar my neighbour/ 
What would you! And in this day there is no restraining 
influence on the laxity of social morals. Literature is de- 
cadent, — likewise Painting; — Sculpture and Poetry are mori- 
bund. Man’s inborn monkeyishness is obtaining the upper 
hand and bearing him back to his natural filth, — and the 
glimmerings of the Ideal as shown forth in a few examples 
, of heroic and noble living are like the flash of the rainbow- 
arch spanning a storm-cloud, — beautiful, but alas! — evanes- 
cent.” 

“I’m afraid you are right” — said Maryllia, with a little 
sigh ; “ It is very sad and discouraging, but I fear very true.” 

“ It’s nothing of the kind ! ” — declared Cicely, with quick 
vehemence — “ It’s just absolute nonsense ! It is ! Ah, 1 never 
shake thy gory locks at me,’ Sir Moon-Calf ! ” and she made a 
little grimace across the table at Julian, who responded to it 
with a complacent smile — “ You can talk, talk, talk — of course ! 
every man that ever sat in clubs, smoking and drinking, can 
talk one’s head off — but you’ve got to live , as well as talk! 
What do you know about self-indulgence being 1 paramount,’ 
except in your own case, eh? Do you think at all of the 
thousands and thousands of poor creatures everywhere, who 
completely sacrifice their lives to the needs of others ? ” 

“ Of course there are such — ” admitted Adderley ; “ But 

V 

“No 1 buts ’ come into the case,” went on the young girl, 
her eyes darkening with the earnestness of her thoughts — “ I 
have seen quite enough even in my time to know how good 
and kind to one another even the poorest people can be. And 
I have had plenty of hardships to endure, too ! But I can tell 
you one thing — and that is, that the Christian 1 myth ’ as you 
call it, is just the one thing that makes my life worth living! 
I don’t want to talk about religion — I never do, — I only just 
say this — that the great lesson of Christianity is exactly what 
we most need to learn.” 

“In what way?” asked Julian, smiling indulgently. 

“ Why, — merely that if one is honest and true, one must be 
crucified. Therefore one is prepared, — and there’s no need to 
cry out when the nails are driven in. The Christian ( myth ’ 
teaches us what to expect, how to endure, and how at last to 
triumph ! ” 


God’s Good Man 


246 

A lovely light illuminated her face, and Maryllia looked at 
her very tenderly. Adderley was silent. 

“ Nothing does one so much good as to be hurt,” — went on 
Cicely in a lighter tone — “ You then become aware that you 
are a somebody whom other bodies envy. You never know 
how high you have climbed till you feel a few dirty hands 
behind you trying to pull you down ! When I start my career 
as a singer, I shall not be satisfied till I get anonymous letters 
every morning, telling me what a fraud and failure I am. 
Then I shall realise that I am famous ! 99 

“Alas!” said Julian with a comically resigned air — “I 
shall never be of sufficient importance for that ! No one would 
waste a penny stamp on me! All I can ever hope to win is 
the unanimous abuse of the press. That will at least give me 
an interested public ! ” 

They laughed. 

“Is Mr. Marius Longford a great friend of yours?” en- 
quired Maryllia. 

“ Ah, that I cannot tell ! ” replied Julian — “ He may be 
friend, or he may be foe. He writes for a great literary paper 
— and is a member of many literary clubs. He has produced 
three books — all monstrously dull. But he has a Clique. Its 
members are sworn to praise Longford, or die. Indeed, if 
they do not praise Longford, they become mysteriously ex- 
terminated, like rats or beetles. I myself have praised Long- 
ford, lest I also get a dose of his unfailing poison. He will 
not praise me — but no matter for that. If he would only 
abuse me! — but he won’t! His blame is far more valuable 
than his eulogy. At present he stands like a kind of neutral 
whipping-post — very much in my way ! ” 

“ He knows Lord Roxmouth, he tells me,” — went on 
Maryllia; whereat Cicely’s sharp glance flashed at her in- 
quisitively — “ Lord Roxmouth is by way of being a patron of 
the arts.” 

The tone of her voice, slightly contemptuous, was not lost 
on Adderley. He fancied he was on dangerous ground. 

“I have never met Lord Roxmouth myself” — he said — 
“But I have heard Longford speak of him. Longford how- 
ever rather * makes ’ for society. I do not. Longford is quite 
at home with dukes and duchesses ” 

“ Or professes to be — ” put in Maryllia, with a slight smile. 

“ Or professes to be, — I accept the correction ! ” agreed 
Adderley. 

“Personally, I know nothing of him,” — said Maryllia — “I 


Gods Good Man 


247 

have never seen him at any of the functions in London, and I 
should imagine him to be a man who rather over-estimated 
himself. So many literary men do. That is why most of them 
are such terrible social bores.” 

“ To the crime of being a literary man I plead not guilty! n 
and Julian folded his hands in a kind of mock-solemn appeal 
— “ Moreover, I swear never to become one ! ” 

“ Good boy ! ” smiled Cicely — “ Be a modern Pan, and run 
away from all the literary cliques, kicking up the dust behind 
you in their faces as you go! Roam the woods in solitude 
and sing! 


'“The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 

The bees on the bells of thyme. 

The birds on the myrtle bushes. 

The cicale above in the lime. 

And the lizards below in the grass. 

Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 

Listening to my sweet pipings! *” 

u Ah, Shelley ! 99 cried Adderley — “ Shelley the divine ! And 
how divinely you utter his lines ! Do you know the last vers© 
of that poem : — ‘ I sang of the dancing stars ’ ? 99 

Cicely raised her hand, commanding attention, and went 

on: 


“ * I sang of the dancing stars, 

I sang of the daedal Earth, 

And of Heaven, — and the giant wars, 

And Love and Death and Birth. 

And then I changed my pipings,— 

Singing, how down the vale of Menalus, 

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed, 

Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! 

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed; 

All wept, as I think both ye now would. 

If envy or age had not frozen your blood, 

At the sorrow of my sweet pipings! * ” 

* Beau-tiful ! — beau-tiful ! ” sighed Adderley — “ But so re- 
mote! — so very remote! Alas! — who reads Shelley now!” 

“I do” — said Cicely — “Maryllia does. You do. And 
many more. Shelley didn’t write for free-libraries and public- 
houses. He wrote for the love of Art, — and he was drowned. 
You do the same, and perhaps you’ll be hung! It doesn’t 
much matter how you end, so long as you begin to be some- 
thing no one else can be.” 


248 


God’s Good Man 


“ You have certainly begun in that direction! ” said Julian. 

Cicely shrugged her shoulders. 

“ I don’t know ! I am myself. Most people try to be what 
they’re not. Such a waste of time and effort! That’s why 
I’ve taken a fancy to the parson I met this morning, Mr. 
Walden. He is himself and no other. He is as much himself 
as old Josey Letherbarrow is. Josey is an individuality. So 
is Mr. Walden. So is Maryllia. So am I. And” — here she 
pointed a witch-like finger at Adderley — “ so would you be, if 
you didn’t * pose ’ as much as you do ! ” 

“ Cicely ! ” murmured Maryllia, warningly, though she 
smiled. 

A slight flush swept over Adderley’s face. But he took the 
remark without offence, thereby showing himself to be of 
better mettle than the little affectations of his outward ap- 
pearance indicated. 

“You think so?” he said, placidly — “That is very dear of 
you! — very young! You may be right — you may be wrong, — 
but from one so unsophisticated as yourself it is a proposition 
worth considering — to pose, or not to pose! It is so new — »c 
freebl” 


XVI 


^TT ALDEtf kept his promise and duly arrived to tea at 

T the Manor that afternoon. He found his hostess in 
the library with Cicely and Julian. She was showing to the 
latter one or two rare ‘ first editions/ and was talking ani- 
matedly, but she broke ofi her conversation the moment he 
was announced, and advanced to meet him with a bright 
smile. 

“At last, Mr. Walden!” she said — “I am glad Cicely has 
succeeded where I failed, in persuading you to accept the 
welcome that has awaited you here for some time ! ” 

The words were gracefully spoken, with just the faintest 
trace of kindly reproach in their intonation. Simple as they 
were, they managed to deprive John of all power to frame a 
suitable reply. He bowed over the little white hand extended 
to him, and murmured something which was inaudible even 
to himself, while he despised what he considered his own 
foolishness, clumsiness and general ineptitude from the bot- 
tom of his heart. Maryllia saw his embarrassment, and 
hastened to relieve him of it. 

“We have been talking books,” — she said, lightly — “Mr. 
Adderley has almost knelt in adoration before my Shakespeare 
‘first folio/ It is very precious, being uncalendared in the 
published lists of ordinary commentators. I suppose you have 
seen it?” 

“ Indeed I have ” — replied Walden, as he shook hands with 
Cicely and nodded pleasantly to Julian — “I’m afraid, Miss 
Vancourt, that if you knew how often I have sat alone in this 
library, turning over the precious volumes, you might be very 
angry with me! But I have saved one or two from the en- 
croaches of damp, such as the illuminated vellum ‘Petrarch/ 
and some few rare manuscripts — so you must try to forgive 
my trespass. Mrs. Spruce used to let me come in and study 
here whenever I liked.” 

“Will you not do so still?” queried Maryllia, sweetly— 
“ I can promise you both solitude and silence.” 

Again a wave of awkwardness overcame him. What could 
he say in response to this friendly and gentle graciousness? 

249 


God’s Good Man 


*50 

“You are very kind,” — he murmured. 

“ Not at all. The library is very seldom used — so the kind- 
ness will be quite on your side if you can make it of service. 
I daresay you know more about the books than I do. My 
father was very proud of them.” 

“ He had cause to be,” — said Walden, beginning to recover 
his equanimity and ease as the conversation turned into a 
channel which was his natural element — •“ It is one of the 
finest collections in England. The manuscripts alone are 
worth a fortune.” Here he moved to the table where Adder- 
ley stood turning over a wondrously painted ‘ Book of Hours ’ 
— “ That is perfect twelfth-century work ” — he said — “ There 
is a picture in it which ought to please Miss Cicely,” and he 
turned the pages over tenderly — “ Here it is, — the loveliest of 
Saint Cecilias, in the act of singing ! ” 

Cicely smiled with pleasure, and hung over the beautifully 
illuminated figure, surrounded with angels in clouds of golden 
glory. 

“ There’s one thing about Heaven which everybody seems 
agreed upon,”— she said — “ It’s a place where we’re all ex- 
pected to sing ! ” 

“Not a doubt of it!” agreed Walden — “You will be quite 
in your element ! ” 

“ The idea of Heaven is remote — so very remote ! ” said 
Adderley — “ But if such a place existed, and I were bound 
to essay a vocal effort there, I should transform it at once 
to Hell ! The angels would never forgive me ! ” 

They laughed. 

“Let us go into the garden” — said Maryllia — “It is quite 
lovely just now, — there are such cool deep shadows on the 

lawn.” 

Cicely at once ran out, beckoning Adderley to follow. 
Maryllia tied on her hat with its pink strings and its bunch 
of pink hyacinths tumbling against her small shell-like ear, 
and looked up from under its brim with an entrancing smile. 

“'Will you come, Mr. Walden?” 

John murmured something politely inarticulate in assent. 
He was, as has already been stated, apt to be rather at a loss 
in the company of women, unless they were well-seasoned 
matrons and grandames, with whom he could converse on the 
most ordinary and commonplace topics, such as the curing of 
liams, the schooling of children, or the best remedies for 
rheumatism. A feminine creature who appeared to exist 
merely to fascinate the eye and attract the senses, moved him 


God’s Good Man 


251 


to a kind of mental confusion, which affected himself chiefly, 
as no one, save the most intimate of his friends, would ever 
have noticed it, or guessed that he was at any sort of pains 
to seem at ease. Just now, as he took his soft shovel-hat, 
and followed his fair hostess out on the lawn, his mind was 
more or less in a state of chaos, and the thoughts that kept 
coming and going were as difficult to put into consecutive 
order as a Chinese puzzle. One uncomfortable memory how- 
ever sat prominently in a corner of his brain like the mocking 
phantasm of a mischievous Puck, pointing its jeering finger 
and reminding him of the fact, not to he denied, that but a . 
short while ago, he had made up his mind to dislike, ay, even 
to detest, that mysterious composition of white and rose, blue 
eyes and chestnut-gold hair, called Maryllia Vancourt, — that 
he had resolved she would be an altogether objectionable 
personage in the village — his village — of St. Pest, — and that 
he had wished — Ah! what had he wished? Back, O teazing 
reminder of the grudging and suspicious spirit that had so 
lately animated the soul of a Christian cleric ! Yet it had to 
be admitted, albeit now reluctantly, that he had actually 
wished the rightful mistress of Abbot’s Manor had never 
returned to it ! Smitten with sorest compunction at the 
recollection of his former blind prejudice against the woman 
he had then never seen, he walked by her side over the warm 
soft grass, listening with a somewhat preoccupied air to the 
remarks she was making concerning Cicely Bourne, and the 
great hopes she entertained of the girl’s future brilliant 
career. 

“ Really,” she declared, “ the only useful thing I have ever 
done in my life is to rescue Cicely from uncongenial sur- 
roundings, and provide her with all she needs for her musical 
studies. To help bring out a great genius gives me some little 
sense of importance, you see! In myself I am such an utter 
nonentity.” 

She laughed. Walden looked at her with an earnestness of 
which he was scarcely conscious. She coloured a little, and 
her eyes fell. Something in the sudden delicate flush of her 
cheeks and the quick droop of her eyelashes startled him, — 
he felt a curious sense of contrition, as though he had given 
her some indefinable, altogether shadowy cause for that brief 
discomposure. The idea that she seemed, even for a second, 
not quite so much at her ease, restored his own nerve and 
self-possession, and it was with an almost paternal gentleness 
that he said. 


25 2 


God’s Good Man 


“Do you really consider yourself a nonentity. Miss Van- 
court? I am sure the society you have left behind you in 
London does not think you so.” 

She opened her sea-blue eyes full upon him. 

“ Society ? Why do you speak of it ? Its opinion of me or 
of anyone else, is surely the last thing a sensible man or 
woman would care for, I imagine! One ‘season’ of it was 
enough for me. I have unfortunately had several ‘seasons/ 
and they were all too many.” 

Again Walden looked at her, but this time she did not seem 
to be aware of his scrutiny. 

“ Do you take me for a member of the ‘ smart ’ set, Mr. 
Walden?” she queried, gaily — “You are very much mistaken 
if you do! I have certainly mixed with it, and know all 
about it — much to my regret — but I don’t belong to it. Of 
course I like plenty of life and amusement, but ‘society’ as 
London and Paris and New York express it in their modes 
and manners and ‘functions,’ is to me the dullest form of 
entertainment in the world.” 

Walden was silent. She gave him a quick side-glance of 
enquiry. 

“I suppose you have been told something about me?” she 
said — “ Something which represents me otherwise than as I 
represent myself. Have you?” 

At this abrupt question John fairly started out of his semi* 
abstraction in good earnest. 

“My dear Miss Vancourt!” he exclaimed, warmly — “How 
can you think of such a thing! I have never heard a word 
about you, except from good old Mrs. Spruce who knew you 
as a child, and who loves to recall these days, — and — er — • 
and ” 

He broke off, checking himself with a vexed gesture. 

“And — er — and — er — who else?” said Maryllia, smiling 

“ Now don’t play tricks with me, or I’ll play tricks with 

you!” 

His eyes caught and reflected her smile. 

“ Well, — Sir Morton Pippitt spoke of you once in my hear- 
ing” — he said — “And a friend of his whom he brought to 
see the church, the Duke of Lumpton. Also a clergyman in 
this neighbourhood, a Mr. Leveson — rector at Badsworth — he 
mentioned you, and presumed ” — here John paused a moment, 
—“yes, I think I may say presumed — to know you person- 
ally” 

“ Did he really! I never heard of him! ” And she laughed 


God’s Good Man 


253 

merrily. “Mr. Walden, if I were to tell you the number of 
people who profess to know me whom 1 do not know and 
never will know, you would be surprised ! I never spoke to 
Sir Morton Pippitt in my life till the other day, though he 
pretends he has met me, — but he hasn’t. He may have seen 
me perhaps by chance when I was a child in the nursery, but 
I don’t remember anything about him. My father never 
visited any of the people here, — we lived very much to our- 
selves. As for the Duke of Lumpton, — well! — nobody knows 
him that can possibly avoid it — and I have never even so 
much as seen him. Aunt Emily may possibly have spoken 
of me in these persons’ hearing — that’s quite likely, — but they 
know nothing of me at first hand.” She paused a moment. 
“ Look at Cicely ! ” she said — “ How quickly she makes 
friends! She and Mr. Adderley are chattering away like two 
magpies ! ” 

Walden looked in the direction indicated, and saw the 
couple at some distance off, under the great cedar-tree which 
was the chief ornament of the lawn, — Cicely seated in a low 
basket-chair, and Adderley stretched on the grass at her feet. 
Both were talking eagerly, both were gesticulating excitedly, 
and both looked exactly what they were, two very eccentric 
specimens of humanity. 

“ They seem perfectly happy ! ” he said, smiling — “ Adder- 
ley is a curious fellow, but I think he has a good heart. He 
puts on a mannerism, because he has seen the members of a 
certain literary * set ’ in London put it on — but he’ll drop that 
in time, — when he is a little older and wiser. He has been in 
to see me once or twice since he took up his residence here for 
the summer. He tries to discuss religion with me — or rather, 
I should say, irreligion. His own special ‘cult’ is the easy 
paganism of Omar Kayyam.” 

“ Is he clever ? ” 

“I think he is. He has a more or less original turn of 
mind. He read me some of his verses the other day.” 

“ Poor you ! ” laughed Maryllia. 

“ Well, I was inclined to pity myself when he first began ” 
— said Walden, laughing also — “ But I must confess I was 
agreeably surprised. Some of his fancies are quite charming.” 

They had been walking slowly across the lawn, and were 
now within a few steps of the big cedar-tree. 

“I must take you into the rose-garden, Mr. Walden!” — 
and she raised her eyes to his with that childlike confiding 
look which was one of her special charms, — “ The roses are 


*54 


God’s Good Man 


just budding out, and I want you to see them before the sum* 
mer gets more advanced. Though I daresay you know every 
rosebush in the place, don’t you ? ” 

; I believe I do ! ” he admitted — “ You see an old fogey like 
myself is bound to have hobbies, and my particular hobby is 
gardening. I love flowers, and I go everywhere I can, or may, 
to see them and watch their growth. So that for years I 
have visited your rose-garden, Miss Yancourt! I have been a 
regular and persistent trespasser, — but all the same, I have 
never plucked a rose.” 

“ Well, I wish you had ! ” said Maryllia, feeling somewhat 
impatient with him for calling himself an 1 old fogey/ — why 
did he give himself away? — she thought, — “I wish you had 
plucked them all and handed them round in baskets to the 
villagers, especially to the old and sick persons. It would 
have been much better than to have had them sold at Rivers- 
ford through Oliver Leach.” 

“Did he sell them?” exclaimed John, quickly — “I am not 
surprised ! ” 

“ He sold everything, and put the money in his own pocket ” 
— said Maryllia, — “But, after all, the loss is quite my own 
fault. I ought to have enquired into the management of 
the property myself. And I certainly ought not to have 
stayed away from home so many years. But it’s never too 
late to mend ! ” She smiled, and advancing a step or two 
called “Cicely!” 

Cicely turned, looking up from beneath her spreading 
canopy of dark cedar boughs. 

“ Oh, Maryllia, we’re having such fun ! ” she exclaimed — 
“ Mr. Adderley is talking words, and I’m talking music ! 
We’ll show you how it goes presently! ” 

“ Do, please ! ” laughed Maryllia ; “ It must be delightful ! 
Mr, Walden and I are going into the rose-garden. We shall 
be back in a few minutes ! ” 

She moved along, her white dress floating softly over the 
green turf, its delicate flounces and knots of rosy ribbon look- 
ing like a trail of living flowers. Walden, walking at her side, 
nodded smilingly as he passed close by Cicely and Julian, his 
tall athletic figure contrasting well with Maryllia’s fairy-like 
grace, — and presently, crossing from the lawn to what was 
called the 4 Cherry-Tree Walk,’ because the path led under an 
arched trellis work over which a couple of hundred cherry- 
trees were trained to form a long arbour or pergola, they turned 
down it, and drawing closer together in conversation, under 


God’s Good Man 


255 


the shower of white blossoms that shed fragrance above their 
heads, they disappeared. Cicely, struck by a certain pic- 
turesqueness, or what she would have called a i stage effect ’ in 
the manner of their exit, stopped abruptly in the pianissimo 
humming of a tune with which she declared she had been 
suddenly inspired by some lines Adderley had just recited. 

“ Isn’t she pretty ! ” she said, indicating with a jerk of her 
ever gesticulating hand the last luminous glimmer of Maryl- 
lia’s vanishing gown — ■“ She’s like Titania, — or Kilmeny in 
Fairyland. Why don’t you write something about her , instead 
of about some girl you ‘ imagine ’ and never see ? ” 

Adderley, lying at his ease on the grass, turned on his arm 
and likewise looked after the two figures that had just passed, 
as it seemed, into a paradise of snowy flowers. 

u The girls I ‘ imagine ’ are always so much better than 
those I see,” — he replied, with uncomplimentary candour. 

“ Thank you ! ” said Cicely — “ You are quite rude, you 
know! But it doesn’t matter.” 

He stared up at her in vague astonishment. 

“ Oh, I didn’t mean you ! ” he explained — “ You’re not a 
girl.” 

“ No, really! ” ejaculated Cicely — “ Then what am I, pray ? ” 

He looked at her critically, — at her thin sallow little face 
with the intense eyes burning like flame under her well- 
marked black eyebrows,- '-at her drooping angular arms and 
unformed figure, tapering into the scraggy, long black-stock- 
inged legs which ended in a pair of large buckled shoes that 
covered feet of a decidedly flat-iron model, — then he smiled 
oddly. 

“ You are a goblin ! ” — he said — “ An elf, — a pixie — a 
witch! You were born in a dark cave where the sea dashed 
in at high tide and made the rough stones roar with music. 
There were sea-gulls nesting above your cradle, and when 
the wind howled, and you cried, they called to you wildly in 
such a plaintive way that you stopped your tears to listen to 
them, and to watch their white wings circling round you. 
You are not a girl — no! — how can you be? For when you 
grew a little older, the invisible people of the air took you 
away into a gr'eat forest, and taught you to swing yourself on 
the boughs of the trees, while the stars twinkled at you 
through the thick green leaves, — and you heard the thrushes 
sing at morning and the nightingales at evening, till at last 
you learned the trill and warble and the little caught sob in 
the throat which almost breaks the heart of those who listen 


256 


God’s Good Man. 


to it! And so you have become what you are, and what I say 
you always will be — a goblin — a witch! — not a girl, but a 
genius ! ” 

He waved his hand with fantastic gesture and raked up his 
hair. 

“ That’s all very well and very pretty,” — said Cicely, show- 
ing her even white teeth in a flashing ‘ goblin ’ grin, — ■“ But 
of course you don’t mean a word of it! It’s merely a way of 
talking, such as poets, or men that call themselves poets, aflect 
when the ‘fit’ is on them. Just a string of words, — mere 
babble! You’d better write them down, though, — you musn’t 
waste them! Publishers pay for so many words I believe, 
whether they’re sense or nonsense, — please don’t lose any half- 
pence on my account! Do you know you are smiling up at 
the sky as if you were entirely mad? Ordinary people would 
say you were, — people to whom dinner is the dearest thing in 
life would suggest your being locked up. And me, too, I 
daresay! You haven’t answered my question, — why don’t you 
write something about Mary Ilia ? ” 

“ She, too, is not a girl,” — rejoined Adderley — “ She is a 
woman. And she is absolutely unwritable ! ” 

“ Too lovely to find expression even in poetry,” — said Cicely, 
complacently. 

“Ho no! — not that! Not that!” And Adderley gave a 
kind of serpentine writhe on the grass as he raised himself to 
a half-sitting posture — “Gentle Goblin, do not mistake me! 
When I say that Miss Vancourt is unwritable, I would fain 
point out that she is above and beyond the reach of my Muse. 
I cannot ‘experience’ her! Yes — that is so! What a poet 
needs most is the flesh model. The flesh model may be Susan, 
or Sarah, or Jane of the bar and tap-room, — but she must 
have lips to kiss, hair to touch, form to caress ” 

“ Saint Moses ! ” cried Cicely, with an excited wriggle of 
her long legs — “ Must she ? ” 

“She must!” declared Julian, with decision — “Because 
when you have kissed the lips, you have experienced a ‘ sensa- 
tion,’ and you can write — ‘Ah, how sweet the lips I love.’ 
You needn’t love them, of course, — you merely try them. She 
must be amenable and good-natured, and allow herself to be 
gazed at for an hour or so, till you decide the fateful colour 
of her eyes. If they are blue, you can paraphrase George 
Meredith on the ‘ Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye ’ system — 
if black, you can recall the ‘Lovely as the light of a dark 
jeye in woman,’ of Byron. She must allow you to freely 


God’s Good Man 


257 


encircle her waist with an arm, so that having felt the emotion 
you can write — ‘ How tenderly that yielding form, Thrills to 
my touch ! } And then, — even as a painter who pays so much 
per hour for studying from the life, — you can go away and 
forget her — or you can exaggerate her charms in rhyme, — or 
‘ imagine 9 that she is fairer than Endymion’s moon-goddess — * 
for so long as she serves you thus she is useful, — but once 
her uses are exhausted, the poet has done with her, and seeks 
a fresh sample. Hence, as I say, your friend Miss Yancourt 
is above my clamour for the Beautiful. I must content my- 
self with some humbler type, and ‘ imagine 9 the rest ! 99 

“ Well, I should think you must, if that’s the way you go 
to work ! 99 said Cicely, with eyes brimful of merriment and 
mischief — “ Why you are worse than the artists of the Quar- 
tier Latin! If you must needs ‘experience’ your models, I 
wonder that Susan, Sarah and Jane of the bar and tap-room 
are good enough for you ! 99 

“ Any human female suffices,” — murmured Julian, drowsily, 
“ Provided she is amenable, — and is not the mother of a large 
family. At the spectacle of many olive branches, the Muse 
shrieks a wild farewell ! ” 

Cicely broke into a peal of laughter. 

“You absurd creature!” she said — “You don’t mean half 
the nonsense you talk — you know you don’t!” 

“Ho I not? But then, what do I mean? Am I justified 
in assuming that I mean anything ? ” And he again ran his 
fingers through his ruddy locks abstractedly. “No, — I think 
not! Therefore, if I now make a suggestion, pray absolve 
me from any serious intentions underlying it — and yet ” 

“ ‘ And yet ’ — what ? ” queried Cicely, looking at him with 
some curiosity. 

“ Ah ! ‘ And yet ’ ! Such little words, ‘ and yet ’ ! ” he 

murmured — “ They are like the stepping-stones across a brook 
which divides one sweet woodland dell from another! ‘And 
yet ’ ! ” He sighed profoundly, and plucking a daisy from 
the turf, gazed into its golden heart meditatively. “ What 
I would say, gentle Goblin, is this, — you call me Moon-calf, 
therefore there can be no objection to my calling you Goblin, 
I think?” 

“Not the least in the world!” declared Cicely — “I rather 
like it ! ” 

“So good of you! — so dear!” he said, softly — “Well! — ■ 
‘ and yet ’ — as I have observed, the Muse may, like the Delphic 
Oracle, utter words without apparent signification, which only 


258 


God’s Good Man 


the skilled proficient at her altar may be able to unravel 
Therefore, — in this precise manner, my suggestion may ba 
wholly without point, — or it may not.” 

“ Please get on with it, whatever it is,” — urged Cicely, im- 
patiently — “ You’re not going to propose to me, are you ? 
Because, if so, it’s no use. I’m too young, and I only met 
you this morning ! ” 

He threw the daisy he had just plucked at her laughing face, 

“ Goblin, you are delicious ! ” he averred — “ But the ghastly 
spectre of matrimony does not at present stand in my path, 
luring me to the frightful chasms of domesticity, oblivion and ' 
despair. What was it the charming Russian girl Bashkirtseff 
wrote on this very subject? ‘ Me marier et ’ ? ” 

“ I can tell you ! ” exclaimed Cicely — •“ It was the one sen- 
tence in the whole book that made all the men mad, because 
it showed such utter contempt for them ! ‘ Me marier et 

avoir des enfants? Mais — chaque blanchisseuse peut en faire 
autant! Je veux la gloire! ’ Oh, how I agree with her! Moi, 
aussi, je veux la gloire ! ” 

Her dark eyes flamed into passion, — for a moment she 
looked almost beautiful. Adderley stared languidly at her 
as he would have stared at the heroine of an exciting scene on 
the stage, with indolent, yet critical interest. 

“Goblin incroyable! ” he sighed — “You are so new! — so 
fresh ! ” 

“ Like salad just gathered,” said Cicely, calming down 
suddenly from his burst of enthusiasm — “And what of your 
c suggestion ’ ? ” 

“My suggestion,” rejoined Adderley — “is one that may 
seem to you a strange one. It is even strange to myself ! But 
it has flashed into my brain suddenly, — and even so inspira- 
tion may affect the dullard. It is this: Suppose the Parson 
fell in love with the Lady, or the Lady fell in love with the 
Parson? Either, neither, or both?” 

Cicely sat up straight in her chair as though she had been 
suddenly pulled erect by an underground wire. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asked — ■“ Suppose the parson 
fell in love with the lady or the lady with the parson ! Is it 
a riddle?” 

“ It may possibly become one ; ” he replied, complacently — • 
“ But to speak more plainly — suppose Mr. Walden fell in love 
with Miss Vancourt, or Miss Vancourt fell in love with Mr. 
SWalden, what would you say?” 

‘ “ Suppose a Moon-calf jumped over the moon ! ” said Cicely 


God’s Good Man 


259 


disdainfully — “ Saint Moses ! Maryllia is as likely to fall in 
love as I am, — and Pm the very last possibility in the way of 
sentiment. Why, whatever are you thinking of? Maryllia 
has heaps of men in love with her, — she could marry to-mor- 
row if she liked.” 

“ Ay, no doubt she could marry — that is quite common — 
but perhaps she could not love!” And Julian waved one 
hand expressively. “To love is so new! — so fresh!” 

“But Maryllia would never fall in love with a parson!” 
declared Cicely, almost resentfully — “ A parson ! — a country 
parson too ! The idea is perfectly ridiculous ! ” 

A glimmer of white in the vista of the flowering ‘ Cherry- 
Tree Walk’ here suddenly appeared and warned her that 
Maryllia and the Beverend John were returning from their 
inspection of the rose-garden. She checked herself in an out- 
burst of speech and silently watched them approaching. Ad- 
derley watched them too with a kind of lachrymose interest. 
They were deep in conversation, and Maryllia carried a bunch 
of white and blush roses which she had evidently just gath- 
ered. She looked charmingly animated, and now and then a 
light ripple of her laughter floated out on the air as sweet as 
the songs of the birds chinning around them. 

“ The roses are perfectly lovely ! ” she exclaimed delightedly, 
as she came under the shadow of the great cedar-tree; “Mr. 
Walden says he has never seen the standards so full of bud.” 
Here she held the cluster she had gathered under Cicely’s 
nose. “Aren’t they delicious! Oh, by the bye, Mr. Walden, 
I have promised you one! You must have it, in return for 
the spray of lilac you gave me when I came to see your gar- 
den ! Now you must take a rose from mine ! ” And, laying 
all the roses on Cicely’s lap, she selected one delicate half- 
opened blush-white bloom. “ Shall I put it in your coat for 
you ? ” 

“If you will so far honour me!” answered Walden; — he 
was strangely pale, and a slight tremor passed, over him as 
he looked down at the small fingers, — pink-tipped as the 
petals of the flower they so deftly fastened in his buttonhole; 
“And how” — he continued, with an effort, addressing Cicely 
and Julian — “How have Music and Poetry got on together?” 

“ Oh, we’re not married yet,” — said Cicely, shaking off the 
ijumb spell which Adderley’s 1 suggestion ’ had for a moment 
cast upon her mind — “ We ought to he, of course, — for a real 
good opera. But we’re only just beginning courtship. Mr. 
lAdderley Jias recited some lines of his own composition, and 


z6o God’s Good Man 

X have improvised some music. You shall hear the result 
some day.” 

“ Why not now ? ” queried Maryllia, as she seated herself 
in another chair next to Cicely’s under the cedar boughs, and 
signed to Walden to do the same. 

“ Why, because I believe that the tea is about to arrive. 
I saw the majestic Primmins in the distance, wrestling with 
a table — didn’t you, Mr. Adderley ? ” 

Adderley rose from his half recumbent position on the 
grass, and shading his eyes from the afternoon sunshine, 
looked towards the house. 

“ Yes, — it is even so ! ” he replied — “ Primmins and a sub- 
ordinate are on the way hither with various creature comforts. 
Music and Poetry must pause awhile. Yet why should there 
be a pause? It is for this that I am a follower of Omar 
Kayyam. He was a materialist as well as a spiritualist, and 
his music admits of the aforesaid creature comforts as much 
as the exalted and subtle philosophies and ironies of life.” . 

“Poor Omar!” said Walden, — “The pretty piteousness of 
him is like the wailing of a lamb led to the slaughter. Grass 
is good to graze on, saith lambkin, — other lambs are fair to 
frisk with, — but alas! — neither grass nor lambs can last, and 
therefore as lambkin cannot always be lambkin, it bleats its 
end in Nothingness! But, thank God, there is something 
stronger and wiser in the Universe than lambkin ! ” 

“True!” said Adderley, “But even lambkin has a right 
to complain of its destiny.” 

Walden smiled. 

“ I think not,” — he rejoined — “ No created thing has a right 
to complain of its destiny. It finds itself Here, — and the fact 
that it is Here is a proof that there is a purpose for its exist- 
ence. What that purpose is we do not know yet, but we shall 
know ! ” 

Adderley lifted dubious eyelids. 

“You think we shall?” 

“ Most assuredly ! What does Dante Kosetti say ? — 

t The day is dark and the night 
To him that would search their heart; 

No lips of cloud that will part 

Nor morning song in the light; 

Only, gazing alone 

To him wild shadows are shown, 

Deep under deep unknown, 


God’s Good Man 


261 


And height above unknown height 
Still we say as we go: 

“ Strange to think by the way 
Whatever there is to know 
That shall we know one day.” y ” 

He recited the lines softly, but with eloquent emphasis. 
* You see, those of us who take the trouble to consider the 
working and progress of events, know Veil enough that this 
glorious Creation around us is not a caprice or a farce. It 
is designed for a Cause and moves steadily towards that 
Cause. There may be — no doubt there are — many men who 
elect to view life from a low, material, or even farcical stand- 
point — nevertheless, life in itself is serious and noble.” 

Cicely’s dark face lightened as with an illumination while 
she listened to these words. Maryllia, who had taken up 
the roses she had laid in Cicely’s lap, and was now arranging 
them afresh, looked up suddenly. 

“ Yet there are many searching truths in the philosophy 
of Omar Kayyam, Mr. Walden,” — she said — “ Many sad facts 
that even our religion can scarcely get over, don’t you think 
so?” 

He met her eyes with a gentle kindliness in his own. 

“ I think religion, if true and pure, turns all sad facts to 
sweetness, Miss Vancourt,” — he said — “ At least, so I have 
found it.” 

The clear conviction of his tone was like the sound of a 
silver bell calling to prayer. A silence followed, broken only 
by the singing of a little bird aloft in the cedar-tree, whose 
ecstatic pipings aptly expressed the unspoilt joys of innocence 
and trust. 

“ One pretty verse of Omar I remember,” then said Cicely, 
abruptly, fixing her penetrating eyes on Walden, — “ And it 
really isn’t a bit irreligious. It is this: — 

‘ The Bird of Life is singing on the bough, 

His two eternal notes of “ I and Thou ” — - 
O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, 

And would we hear it, we must hear it Now! * ” 

A white rose slipped from the cluster Maryllia held, and 
dropped on the grass. John stooped for it, and gave it back 
to her. Their hands just touched as she smiled her thanks. 
There was nothing in the simple exchange of courtesies to 
move any self-possessed man from his normal calm, yet a 


262 


God’s Good Man 


sudden hot thrill and leap of the heart dazed Walden’s brain 
for a moment and made him almost giddy. A sick fear — an 
indefinable horror of himself possessed him, — caught by this 
unnameable transport of sudden and singular emotion, he 
felt he could have rushed away, away! — anywhere out of 
reach and observation, and have never entered the fair and 
halcyon gardens of Abbot’s Manor again. Why ? — in Heaven’s 
name, why? He could not tell, — but — he had no right to 
be there! — no right to be there! — he kept on repeating to 
himself; — he ought to have remained at home, shut up in his 
study with his dog and his books, — alone, alone, always alone ! 
The brief tempest raged over his soul with soundless wind 
and fire, — then passed, leaving no trace on his quiet 
features and composed manner. But in that single instant an 
abyss had been opened in the depths of his own consciousness, 
— an abyss into which he looked with amazement and dread at 
the strange foolhardiness which had involuntarily led him to 
its brink, — and he now drew back from it, nervously 
shuddering. 

“ ‘ And would we hear it, we must hear it Now ! 9 ” repeated 
Adderley, with opportune bathos at this juncture — “ As I have 
said, and will always maintain, Omar’s verse always fits in 
with the happy approach of creature comforts! Behold the 
illustration and example ! — Primmins with the tea ! ” 

“It is a pretty verse, though, isn’t it?” queried Cicely, 
moving her chair aside to make more space for the butler 
and footman as they nimbly set out the afternoon tea-table 
in the deepest shade bestowed by the drooping cedar boughs 
—“Isn’t it?” 

And her searching eyes fastened themselves pertinaciously 
upon John’s face. 

“Very pretty!” he answered, steadily— “ And— so far^s it 
goes — very true ! ” 


XVII 


^fter tea, they re-entered the house at Maryllia’s request, 
to hear Cicely play. Arrived in the drawing-room 
they found the only truly modern thing in it, a grand piajio, 
of that noted French make which as far surpasses the Ger- 
man model as a genuine Stradivarius surpasses a child’s fiddle 
put together yesterday, and, taking her seat at this instrument. 
Cicely had transformed both herself and it into unspeakable 
enchantment. The thing of wood and wire and ivory keys 
had become possessed, as it were, with the thunder of the 
battling clouds and the great rush of the sea, — and then 
it had suddenly whispered of the sweetness of love and life, 
till out of storm had grown the tender calm of a flowing 
melody, on which wordless dreams of happiness glittered like 
rainbow bubbles on foam, shining for a moment and then 
vanishing at a breath; it had caught the voices of the rain 
and wind, — and the pattering drops and sibilant hurricane 
had whizzed sharply through the scale of sound till the very 
notes seemed alive with the wrath of nature, — and then it had 
rolled all the wild clamour away into a sustained magnificence 
of prayerful chords which seemed to plead for all things 
grand, all things true, all things beautiful, — and to list the 
soul of man in panting, labouring ecstasy up to the very 
threshold of Heaven! And she — the ‘goblin’ who evoked 
all this phantasmagoria of life set in harmony — she too 
changed as it seemed, in nature and aspect, — her small meagre 
face was as the face of a pictured angel, with the dark hair 
clustering round it in thick knots and curling waves as of 
blackest bronze, — while the eyes, full of soft passion and fire, 
glowed beneath the broad temples with the light of youth’s 
imperial dream of fame. What human creature could accept 
the limited fact of being mere man, mere woman only, while 
Cicely played? Such music as hers recalled and revealed 
the earliest splendour of the days when Poesy was newly 
born, — when gods and goddesses were believed to walk the 
world in large and majestic freedom, — and when brave deeds 
of chivalry and self-sacrifice became exalted by the very pleni- 
tude of rich imagination, into supernatural facts of heaven- 

263 


264 


God’s Good Man 


conquering, hell-charming prowess. Not then was man made 
to seem uncouth, or mean and savage in his attempts to 
dominate the planet, but strong, fearless, and endowed with 
dignity and power. Not then was every noble sentiment de- 
rided, — every truth scourged, — every trust betrayed, — every 
tenderness mocked, — and every sweet emotion made the sub- 
ject of a slander or a sneer. Not then was love mere lust, 
marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of 
gain. There was something higher, greater, purer than these, 
— something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according 
to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity 
with the words — “ Let us make man in Our image, after Our 
likeness.” That 1 image ’ of God was featured gloriously in 
the waves of music which surged through Cicely’s brain and 
fingers, out on the responsive air, — and when she ceased play- 
ing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, 
which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation 
were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with 
a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had 
passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano- 
keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure sil- 
very sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De 
Musset’s ( Adieu, Suzon ! ’ 

“ Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde, 

Qui m’as aimg pendant huit jours! 

Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde 
Souvent font les meilleurs amours. 

Sais-ie au moment oil je te quitte 
Oil m’entratne mon astre errant? 

Je m’en vais pourtant, ma petite, 

Bien loin, bien vite, 

Adieu, Suzon! n 

Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flow- 
ing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a 
swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half -mock* 
ing sweetness she infused into these lines? 

“ Je pars, et sur ma l§vre ardente 

Brfile encor ton dernier baiser. 

Entre mes bras, ch$re imprudente 
Ton beau front vient de reposer. 

Sens-tu mon coeur, comme il palpite? 

Le tien, comme il battait gaimentl 


God’s Good Man 


265 


Jem’en vais pourtant, ma petite, 

Bien loin, bien vite 
Tour jours t’aimant! 

Adieu, Suzonl ” 

With the passion, fire and exquisite abandon of her singing 
of this verse in tones of such youthful freshness and fervour 
as could scarcely be equalled and never surpassed, Adderley 
could no longer restrain himself, and crying 6 Brava ! — brava ! 
Bravissima ! 7 fell to clapping his hands in the wildest ecstasy. 
Walden, less demonstrative, was far more moved. Something 
quite new and strange to his long fixed habit and temperament 
had insidiously crept over him, — and being well accustomed 
to self-analysis, he was conscious of the fact, and uneasy at 
finding himself in the grip of an emotion to which he could 
give no name. Therefore, he was glad when, — the music 
being ended, and when he had expressed his more or less in- 
coherent praise and thanks to Cicely for the delight her 
wonderful gift had afforded him, — he could plead some busi- 
ness in the village as an excuse to take his departure. Maryl- 
lia very sweetly bade him come again. 

“ As often as you like,” — she said — ■“ And I want you to 
promise me one thing, Mr. Walden! — you must consent to 
meet some of my London friends here one evening to dinner.” 

She had given him her hand in parting, and he was holding 
it in his own. 

“ I’m afraid I should be very much in the way. Miss Van- 
court,” — he replied, with a grave smile — “I am not a social 
acquisition by any means! I live very much alone, — and a 
solitary life, I think, suits me best.” 

She looked at him thoughtfully, and withdrew her hand. 

“ That means that you do not care to come,” — she said, 
simply — “I am so sorry you do not like me!” 

The blood rushed up to his brows. 

“Miss Vancourt!” he stammered — “Pray — pray do not 
think ■” 

But here she turned aside to receive Adderley’s farewells 
and thanks for the charming afternoon he had spent in her 
company. After this, and when Julian had made his exit, 
accompanied by Cicely who wanted him to give her a written 
copy of certain verses he had composed, Maryllia again spoke : 

“ Well, at any rate, I shall send you an invitation to one of 
my parties, whether you come or not, Mr. Walden;” she said, 
playfully — “ Otherwise, 1 shall feel I have not done my social 
duty to the minister of the parish ! It will be for some even- 


266 


God’s Good Man 


ing during the next three weeks. I hope you will be able to 
accept it. If not ” 

A sudden resolve inspired John’s hesitating soul. Taking 
the hand she offered, he raised it lightly to his lips with all 
the gallantry of an old-world courtier rather than a modern- 
time parson. 

“ If you wish me to accept it, it shall be accepted ! ” — he 
said, and his voice shook a little — “ Forgive me if in any way 
I have seemed to you discourteous. Miss Vancourt! — I am so 
much of a solitary, that 6 society 9 has rather an intimidating 
effect upon me, — but you must never ” — here he looked at her 
full and bravely — “You must never say again or think that 
I do not like you ! I do like you ! 99 

Her eyes met his with pure and candid earnestness. 

“ That is kind of you,” — she said — “ And I am glad ! Good- 
bye ! ” 

“ Good-bye!” 

And so he left her presence. 

When he started to walk home across the fields, Adderley 
proffered his companionship, which could not in civility be 
refused. They left the Manor grounds together by the little 
wicket-gate, and took the customary short-cut to the village. 
The lustrous afternoon light was mellowing warmly into a 
deeper saffron glow, — a delicate suggestion of approaching 
evening was in the breath of the cooling air, and though the 
uprising orb of Earth had not yet darkened the first gold cloud 
beneath the western glory of the sun, there was a gentle 
murmur and movement among the trees and flowers and 
birds, which indicated that the time for rest and sleep was 
drawing nigh. The long grasses rustled mysteriously, and 
the sma'1 unseen herbs hidden under them sent up a pun- 
gently sweet odour as the two men trod them down on their 
leisurely way across the fields, — and it was with a certain 
sense of relief from mental strain that Walden lifted his hat 
and let the soft breeze fan his temples, which throbbed and 
ached very strangely as though with a weight of pent-up tears. 
He was very silent, — and Julian Adderley, generally accus- 
tomed to talk for two, seemed disposed to an equal taciturnity. 
The few hours they had spent in the society of Maryllia 
Vancourt and her weird protegee, Cicely Bourne, had given 
both men subject for various thoughts which neither of them 
were inclined to express to one another. Walden, in par- 
ticular, was aware of a certain irritation and uneasiness of 
mind which troubled him greatly and he looked askance at 


God’s Good Man 267 

bis companion with unchristian impatience. The long-legged, 
red-haired poet was decidedly in his way at the present mo- 
ment, he would rather have been alone. He determined in 
any case not to ask him to enter the rectory garden, — more 
of his society would be intolerable, — they would part at the 
gate, — 

“I’m afraid I’m boring you, Mr. Walden,” — said the un- 
conscious object of his musings, just then — “I am dull! I 
feel myself under a cloud. Pray excuse it ! ” 

The expression of his face was comically lachrymose, and 
John felt a touch of compunction at the nature of his own 
immediate mental attitude towards the harmless ‘moon-calf.’ 

“ Don’t apologise ! ” he said, with a frank smile — “ I myself 
am not in a companionable humour. I think Miss Bourne’s 
music has not only put something into us, but taken some- 
thing out of us as well.” 

“You are right!” said Julian — “You are perfectly right. 
And you express the emotion aptly. It was extraordinary 
music ! But that voice ! That voice will be a wonder of the 
world ! ” 

“It is a wonder already” — rejoined Walden — “If the girl 
keeps her health and does not break down from nervous ex- 
citement and overstrain, she will have a dazzling career. I 
think Miss Yancourt will take every possible care of her.” 

“Miss Yancourt is very lovely,” — said Adderley reflectively, 
“I have made up my mind on that point at last. When I 
first saw her, I was not convinced. Her features are imper- 
fect. But they are mobile and expressive — and in the expres- 
sion there is a subtle beauty which is quite provocative. Then 
again, my own ‘ideals’ of women have always been tall and 
queenly, — yet in Miss Yancourt we have a woman who is 
queenly without being tall. It is the regal air without the 
material inches. And I am now satisfied that the former is 
more fascinating than the latter. Though I admit that it 
was once my dream to die upon the breast of a tall woman ! ” 

Walden laughed forcedly. He was vexed to be compelled 
to listen to Adderley’s criticism of Maryllia Yancourt’s 
physical charms, yet he was powerless to offer any remon- 
strance. * 

“ But, after all,” continued Julian, gazing up into the pink 
and mauve clouds of the kindling sunset, — “ The tall woman 
might possibly, from the very coldness of her height, be un 
sympathetic. She might be unelaspable. Juno seems eve* 
more repellent than Venus or Psyche. Then again, there are 


268 


God’s Good Man 


so many large women. They are common. They obstruct 
the public highway. They tower forth iu theatre-stalls, and 
nod jewelled tiaras from the elevation of opera-boxes, blocking 
out the view of the stage. They are more often assertive than 
lovable. Therefore let me not cling to an illusion which will 
not bear analysis. Tor Miss Yancourt is not a tall woman, — 
nor for that matter is she short, — she is indescribable, and 
therefore entirely bewitching ! 99 

John said nothing, but only walked on a trifle more quickly. 
“ You are perhaps not an admirer of the fair sex, Walden ? 99 
pursued his companion — “ And therefore my observations 
awaken no sympathy in your mind ? ” 

“I never discuss women,” — replied Walden, drily — “I am 
not a poet, you see, — ” and he smiled — “ I am merely a 
middle-aged parson. You can hardly expect me to share in 
your youthful enthusiasms, Adderley! You are going up the 
hill of life, — I am travelling down. We cannot see things 
from the same standpoint.” Here, they left the fields and 
came to the high road, — from thence a few more paces brought 
them to the gate of the rectory. “ But I quite agree with 
you in your admiration of Miss Yancourt. She seems a most 
kindly and charming lady — and — I believe — I am sure ” — and 
his remarks become somewhat rambling and disjointed — “yes 
— I am sure she will try to do good in the village now that 
she has taken up her residence here. That is, of course, if 
she stays. She may get tired of country life — that is quite 
probable — but — it is, of course, a good thing to have a strong 
social influence in the neighbourhood — especially a woman’s 
influence — and I should say Miss Yancourt will make herself 

useful and beloved in the parish •” 

At this period he caught Adderley’s eyes fixed upon him 
somewhat quizzically, and realised that he was getting quite 
1 parochial ’ in his talk. He checked himself abruptly and 
swung open his garden gate. 

“ I’m sorry I can’t ask you in just now,” — he said — “ I have 

some pressing work to do ” 

“Don’t mention it!” and Julian clasped him by the hand 
fervently — “I would not intrude upon you for worlds! You 
must be alone, of course. You are delightful! — yes, my dear 
Walden, you are delicious! So new — so fresh! It is a priv- 
ilege to know you! Good-bye for the moment! I may come 
and talk to you another time?” 

“Oh, certainly! By all means!” And Walden, shaking 
hands with all the vigour Adderley’s grasp enforced upon him. 


God’s Good Man 


265. 


escaped at last into the sanctuary of his own garden, and 
hastened under the covering shadow of the trees that bordered 
the lawn. Adderley watched him disappear, and then went 
on his own way with a gratified air of perfect complacency. 

“ Those who ‘ never discuss women 9 are apt to be most 
impressed by them,” — he sagaciously reflected — “ The writh- 
ings of a beetle on a pin are not so complex or interesting as 
the writhings of a parson’s stabbed senses ! Now a remarkable 

psychological study might be made My good friend I 

Kindly look where you are going ! ” 

This last remark was addressed to a half -drunken man who 
pushed past him roughly without apology, almost jostling him 
off the foot-path. It was Oliver Leach, who hearing himself 
spoken to, glanced round sullenly with a muttered oath, and 
stumbled on. 

“ That is Miss Vancourt’s dismissed agent,” — said Adder- 
ley, pausing a moment to watch his uncertain progress up the 
road. “What an objectionable beast! ” 

He walked on, and, his former train of thought being 
entirely disturbed, he went to the ‘Mother Huff,’ where he 
was a frequent visitor, his elaborate courtesies to Mrs. Bug- 
gins enabling him to hear from that lady’s pious lips all the 
latest news, scandal and gossip, true or untrue, concerning the 
whole neighbourhood. 

Walden, meanwhile, finding himself once more alone in 
his own domain, breathed freely. The faithful Nebbie, who 
had passed all the hours of his master’s absence, ‘ on guard ’ 
by the window of the vacant study, came running to meet 
him as he set foot upon the lawn, — three or four doves that 
were brooding on the old tiled and gabled roof of the rectory, 
rose aloft in a short flight and descended again, cooing softly 
as though with satisfaction at his return, — and there was a 
soothing silence everywhere the work of the day being done, 
and Bainton having left the garden trim and fair to its own 
sweet solitude and calm. Gently patting his dog’s rough head, 
as the animal sprang up to him with joyous short barks of 
welcome, John looked about him quietly for a moment or two 
with an expression in his eyes that was somewhat dreamy and 
pathetic. 

“ I have known the old place so long and loved every corner 
of it ! ” — he murmured — “ And yet, — to-day it seems all 
strange and unfamiliar ! ” 

The glow of the sunset struck a red flare against the walls 
|d£ his house, and heat out twinkling diamond flashes from the 


2?0 


God’s Good Man 


latticed windows, — the clambering masses of honeysuckle and 
roses shone forth in vivid clusters as though inwardly illum- 
inated. The warmth and ecstasy of life seemed palpitating in 
every flush of colour, every shaft of light, — and the wild, 
voluptuous singing of unseen skylarks, descending to their 
nests, and shaking out their songs, as it seemed, like bubbles 
of music breaking asunder in the clear empyrean, expressed 
the rapture of heaven wedded to the sensuous, living, breath- 
ing joys of earth. The glamour and radiance of the air 
affected Walden with a sudden unwonted sense of fatigue 
and pain, and pressing one hand across his eyes, he shut out 
the dazzle of blue sky and green grass for a moment’s respite, 
— then went slowly . and with bent head into his study. Here 
everything was very quiet, — and, as it struck him then, curi- 
ously lonely, — on his desk lay various' notes and messages 
and accounts — the usual sort of paper litter that accumulated 
under his hands every day, — two or three visiting cards had 
been left for him during his absence, — one on the part of the 
local doctor, a very clever and excellent fellow named James 
Forsyth, who was familiarly called c Jimmy’ by the villagers, 
and who often joined Walden of an evening to play a game of 
chess with him, — and another bearing the neat superscription 
6 Mrs. Mandeville Poreham. The Leas. At Home Thursdays,’ 
— whereat he smiled. Mrs. Mandeville Poreham was a 
c county’ lady, wife of a gentleman-at-ease who did nothing 
but hunt, and who never had done anything in all his life but 
hunt, — she was also the mother of five marriageable daughters, 
and her calls on the Reverend John were marked by a polite 
and patient persistency that seemed altogether admirable. She 
lived some two miles out of St. Rest, but always attended 
Walden’s church regularly, driving thither with her family 
in a solemnly closed private omnibus of the true ‘ county’ 
type. She professed great interest in all Church matters, cn 
the ground that she was herself the daughter of a dead-and- 
gone clergyman. 

“ My poor father ! ” she was wont to say, smoothing her 
sleek bandeaux of grey hair on either side of her forehead 
with one long, pale, thin finger — “ He was such a good man ! 
Ah yes! — and he had such a lovely mind! My mother was 
a Beedle.” 

This last announcement, generally thrown in casually, was 
apt to be startling to the uninitiated, — and it was not till the 
genealogy of the Reedle family had been duly explained to 
the anxious enquirer, that it was seen how important and all- 


God’s Good Man 


271 


sufficing it was to have had a Beedle for one’s maternal 
parent. The Beedles were a noted ‘ old stock ’ in Suffolk, so 
it appeared, — and to be connected with a Suffolk Beedle was, 
to certain provincial minds of limited perception, a complete 
guarantee of superior birth and breeding. Walden was well 
accustomed to receiving a call from Mrs. Poreham about every 
ten days or so, and he did his utmost best to dodge her at all 
points. Bainton was his ready accomplice in this harmless 
conspiracy, and promptly gave him due warning whenever the 
Poreham ‘ ’bus 9 or landau was seen weightily bearing down 
upon the village, with the result that, on the arrival of the 
descendant of the Beedles at the rectory door she was met by 
Hester Bockett, the parlourmaid, with a demure smile and the 
statement, — ‘Mr. Walden is out, mim.’ Then, when Walden, 
according to the laws of etiquette, had to return the lady’s 
visit, Bainton again assisted him by watching and waiting till 
he could inform him, 6 ’as ’ow he’d seen that blessed old Pore- 
ham woman drivin’ out with ’er fam’ly to Riversford. They 
won’t likely be back for a couple of hours at least.’ Where- 
upon Walden straightway took a swinging walk up to ‘ The 
. teas,’ deposited his card with the footman for the absent 
* fam’ly ’ and returned again in peace to his own dwelling. 

This afternoon he had again, as usual, missed the worthy 
lady, and he set aside her card, the smile with which he had 
glanced at it changing suddenly to a sigh of somewhat 
wearied impatience. Surely there was something unusually 
dark and solitary in the aspect of the room to which, for so 
many years, he had been accustomed, and where he had gen- 
erally found comfort and contentment? The vivid hues of 
the sunset were declining rapidly, and the solemn shadow of 
evening was creeping up apace over the sky and outer land- 
scape — but something heavier than the mild obscurity of ap- 
proaching night seemed weighing on the air around him, 
which oppressed his nerves and saddened his soul. He stood 
absently turning over the papers on his desk, in a frame of 
mind which left him uncertain how to employ himself, — 
whether to read, — to write, — to finish a sketch of the flowering 
reeds on the river which he had yesterday begun, — or to com- 
bat with his own mood, fathom its meaning, and conquer its 
tendency? There came a light tap at his door and the maid 
Hester entered with a letter. 

“ The last post, sir. Only one for you.” 

He took it up indifferently as the girl retired, — then uttered 
a slight exclamation of pleasure. 


272 


God’s Good Man 


“ From Brent,” — he said, half aloud — “ Dear old fellow ! I 
have not heard from him since New Year.” 

He opened the letter, and began to read. The interested 
look in his eyes deepened, — and he moved nearer to the open 
window to avail himself as much as possible of the swiftly 
decreasing light. 

“ Dear Walden,” — it ran — •“ The spirit moves me to write 
to you, not only because it occurs to me that I have failed 
to do so for a long time, but also because I feel a certain 
necessity for thought-expansion to someone, who, like your- 
self, is accustomed to the habit of thinking. The tendency 
of the majority nowadays is, — or so it appears to me, — to 
forget the purpose for which the brain was designed, or rather 
to use it for no higher object than that for which it is em- 
ployed by the brute creation, namely to consider the ways 
and means of securing food, and then to ruminate on the 
self-gratification which follows the lusts of appetite. In fact, 
< to rot and rot, — and thereby hangs a tale ! ’ But before I 
enter into any particulars of my own special phase or mood, 
let me ask how it fares with you in your small and secluded 
parish? All must be well, I imagine, otherwise doubtless I 
should have heard. It seems only the other day that I came, 
at your request, to consecrate your beautiful little church 
of ‘ The Saint’s Best/ — yet seven years have rolled away since 
then, leaving indelible tracks of age on me, as probably on 
you also, my dear fellow! — though you have always carried 
old Time on your back more lightly and easily than I. To 
me he has ever been the Arabian Nights’ inexorable c Old 
Man of the Sea/ whose habit is to kill unless killed. At fifty- 
one I feel myself either * rusting’ or mellowing; I wonder 
which you will judge the most fitting appellation for me when 
we next meet? Mind and memory play me strange tricks in 
my brief moments of solitude, and whenever I think of you, I 
imagine it can only be yesterday that we two college lads 
walked and talked together in the drowsy old streets of Ox- 
ford and made our various plans for our future lives with ail 
the superb dominance and assertiveness of youth, which is so 
delightful while it lasts, despite the miserable deceptions it 
practises upon us. One thing, however, which I gained in 
the past time, and which has never deceived me, is your 
friendship, — and how much I owe to you no one but myself 

can ever tell. Good God! how superior you always were, 

and are, to me! Why did you efface yourself so completely 


God’s Good Man 


273 


for my sake? I often ask this question, and except for the 
fact that it would be impossible to you to even make an 
attempt to override, for mere ambition, anyone for whom you 
had a deep affection, I cannot imagine any answer. But as 
matters have turned out with me I think it might have been 
better after all, had you been in my place and I in yours ! A 
small ‘ cure of souls 7 would have put my mental fibre to less 
torture, than the crowding cares of my diocese, which depress 
me more and more as they increase. Many things seem to 
me hopeless, — utterly irremediable! The shadow of a pre- 
ponderating, defiant, all-triumphant Evil stalks abroad every- 
where — and the clergy are as much affected by it as the lay- 
men. I feel that the world is far more Christ-less to-day 
after two thousand years of preaching and teaching, than it 
was in the time of Nero. How has this happened ? Whose the 
fault? Walden, there is only one reply — it is the Church 
itself that has failed! The message of salvation, — the gospel 
of love, — these are as God-horn and true as ever they were, — 
but the preachers and teachers of the Divine Creed are to 
blame, — the men who quarrel among themselves over forms 
and ceremonies instead of concentrating their energies on 
ministering to others, — and I confess I find myself often at a 
loss to dispose Church affairs in such wise as to secure at one 
and the same time, peace and satisfaction amongst the clergy 
under me, with proper devotion to the mental and physical 
needs of the thousands who have a right, yes a right to expect 
spiritual comfort and material succour from those who pro- 
fess, by their vows of ordination, to be faithful and disinter- 
ested servants of Christ. 

“I daresay you remember how we used to talk religious 
matters over when we were young and enthusiastic men, study- 
ing for the Church. You will easily recall the indignation 
and fervour with which we repudiated all heresies new and 
old, and turned our backs with mingled pity and scorn on 
every writer of agnostic theories, estimating such heterodox 
influences as weighing but lightly in the balance of belief, 
and making little or no effect on the minds of the majority. 
We did not then grasp in its full measure the meaning of 
what is to-day called the ‘ rush 7 of life. That blind, brutal 
stampede of humanity over every corner and quarter of the 
earth, — a stampede which it is impossible to check or to divert, 
and which arises out of a nameless sense of panic, and fore- 
boding of disaster ! Like hordes of wild cattle on the prairies, 
who scent invisible fire, and begin to gallop furiously headlong 


274 


God’s Good Man 


anywhere and everywhere, before the first red gleam of the 
devouring element breaks from the undergrowth of dry grass 
and stubble, — so do the nations and peoples appear to me to* 
day. Reckless, maddened, fear-stricken and reasonless, they 
rush hither and thither in search of refuge from themselves 
and from each other, yet are all the while driven along uncon- 
sciously in heterogeneous masses, as though swept by the 
resistless breath of some mysterious whirlwind, impelling 
them on to their own disaster. I feel the end approaching, 
Walden! — sometimes I almost see it! And with the near 
touch of a shuddering future catastrophe on me, I am often 
disposed to agree with sad King Solomon that after all 1 there 
is nothing better for a man than that he should eat, drink 
and be merry all the days of his life.’ For I grow tired of 
my own puny efforts to lift the burden of human sorrow which 
is laid upon me, aloft on the fainting wings of prayer, to a 
God who seekns wholly irresponsive, — mind, Walden, I say 
seems — so do not start away from my words and judge me as 
beginning to weaken in the faith that formerly inspired me. 
I confess to an intense fatigue and hopelessness, — the constant 
unrelieved consciousness of human wretchedness weighs me 
down to the dust of spiritual abasement, for I can but think 
that if God were indeed merciful and full of loving-kindness. 
He would not. He could not endure the constant spectacle of 
man’s devilish injustice to his brother man! I have no right 
to permit myself to indulge in such reflections as these, I 
know, — yet they have gained such hold on me that I have 
latterly had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. But 
this is a matter involving other changes in my life, on which 
I should like to have some long friendly talks with you, before 
taking any decisive step. Your own attitude of mind towards 
the ‘ calling and election ’ you have chosen has always seemed 
to me so pre-eminently pure and lofty, that I should condemn 
my own feelings even more than I do, were I to allow the 
twin forces of pessimism and despair to possess me utterly 
without an attempt to bring them under your sane and health- 
ful exorcism, the more so, as you know all my personal his- 
tory and life-long sorrow. And this brings me to the main 
point of my letter which is, that I should much like to see you, 
if you can spare me two or three days of your company any 
time before the end of August. Try to arrange an early visit, 
though I know how ill your parishioners can spare you, and 
how more than likely they are to grumble at your absence. 
You are to be envied in having secured so much affection and 


God’s Good Man 


275 


confidence in the parish you control, and every day I feel 
more and more how wisely you have chosen your lot in that 
comparative obscurity, which, at one time, seemed to those 
who know your brilliant gifts, a waste of life and opportunity. 
Of course you are not without jealous enemies, — no true soul 
ever is. Sir Morton Pippitt still occasionally sends me a 
spluttering note of information as to something you have, or 
have not done, to the church on which you have spent the 
greater part of your personal fortune; and Leveson, the min- 
ister at Badsworth, appears to think that I should assist him 
by heading a subscription list to obtain funds for the purpose 
of making his church as perfect a gem of architecture as 
yours. Due enquiries have been made as to the nature and 
needs of his parishioners, and it appears that only twenty-five 
adult persons on an average ever attend his ministrations, 
and that the building for which he pleads is a brick edifice 
built in 1870 and deliberately allowed to decay by disuse and 
neglect. However, Sir Morton Pippitt is taking some interest 
in it, so I am given to understand, — and perhaps in ‘ restor- 
ing’ a modem chapel, he will be able to console himself for 
the ruthless manner in which you stripped off his ‘ galvanised 
tin’ roof from your old Norman church walls! 

“ I am sorry to hear that the historic house of Abbot’s 
Manor is again inhabited, and by one who is likely to be a 
most undesirable neighbour to you.” 

Here Walden, unable to read very quickly at the window, 
stepped out on the lawn, still holding the letter close to his 
eyes. “ A most undesirable neighbour ” — he murmured — 
“ Yes — now let me see ! — where is that phrase ? — Oh, here it 
is, — ‘ a most undesirable neighbour. ’ ” And he read on : — 

“I allude to Miss Vancourt, the only child of the late 
Robert Vancourt who was killed some years ago in the hunt- 
ing field. The girl was taken away at her father’s death by 
her uncle Frederick, who, having sown an unusual crop of 
wild oats, had married one of those inordinately wealthy 
American women to whom the sun itself appears little more 
than a magnified gold-piece — and of course between the two 
she has had a very bad training. Frederick Vancourt was the 
worst and weakest of the family, and his wife has been known 
for years as a particularly hardened member of the ‘smart' 
set. Under their tutelage Miss Vancourt, or ‘ Maryllia Van/ 
as she appears to be familiarly known and called in society, 
has attained a rather unenviable notoriety ; and when I heard 
the other day that she had left her aunt's house in a fit of 


276 God’s Good Man 


ungovernable temper, and had gone to her own old house to 
live, I thought at once of you with a pang of pity. For, if I 
remember rightly, you have a great opinion of the Manor as 
an unspoilt relic of Tudor times, and have always been rather 
glad that it was left to itself without any modern improvement 
or innovation. I can imagine nothing worse to your mind 
than the presence of a 1 smart’ lady in the unsophisticated 
village of St. Best ! However, you may take heart of grace, as 
it is not likely she will stay there long. Bumour asserts that 
she is shortly to be married to Lord Boxmouth, — he who will 
be Duke of Ormistoune and owner of that splendid but 
half-ruined pile, Boxmouth Castle. She has, it appears, kept 
this poor gentleman dancing attendance on her for a sufficient 
time to make evident to the world her desire to secure his 
title, and her present sudden capricious retirement into coun- 
try life is understood to be a mere ruse to draw him more 
swiftly on to his matrimonial doom. No doubt he has an eye 
on Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, which her niece would in- 
herit in the event of her marrying a future English duke, — ■ 
still, from what I gather, he would deserve some compensation 
for risking his life’s happiness with such a very doubtful 
partner. But I daresay I am retailing information with which 
you are no doubt already quite familiar, and in all probability 
• Maryllia Van ’ is not likely to cross your path at any time, as 
among her other reported characteristics is that of a cheap 
scorn for religion, — a scorn which sits so unbecomingly on our 
modern women, and forbodes so much disaster in the future, 
they being the mothers of the coming race. I expect the only 
circumstance likely to trouble your calm and pleasant routine 
of life and labour is, that the present occupation of Abbot’s 
Manor may have stopped some of your romantic rambles in 
the beautiful woods surrounding it! May never any greater 
care disturb you, my dear fellow ! — for even that is one, which, 
as I have pointed out to you, will be of brief duration. Let 
me know when you think you will be able to come and spend 
a couple of days here, — and I will clear my work ahead in 
order to leave the time free for an entire unburdening of my 
soul to you, as in the days of our youth, so long ago.— 
Sincerely and affectionately yours, H. A. Brent.” 

Slowly, and with methodical nicety, Walden folded up the 
letter and put it in his pocket. With a kind of dazed air he 
looked about him, vaguely surprised that the evening seemed 
to have fallen so soon. Streaks of the sunset still glowed redly 


God’s Good Man 


277 


here and there in the sky, but the dense purple of the night 
had widened steadily over the spaces of the air, and just 
above the highest bough of the apple-tree on the lawn, the 
planet Venus twinkled bravely in all its silver panoply of 
pride as the Evening Star. Low and sweet on the fragrant 
silence came the dulcet piping of a nightingale, and the soft 
swishing sound of the river flowing among the rushes, and 
pushing against the pebbly shore. A sudden smarting sense 
of pain stung Walden’s eyes, — pressing them with one hand he 
found it wet, — with tears ? No, no ! — not with tears, — merely 
with the moisture of strain and fatigue, — his sight was not so 
good as it used to he; — of course he was getting old, — and 
Bishop Brent’s small caligraphy had been difficult to decipher 
by the half-light. All at once something burning and passion- 
ate stirred in him, — a wave of chivalrous indignation that 
poured itself swiftly through every channel of his clean and 
honest blood, and he involuntarily clenched his hand. 

“What liars there are in the world!” he said aloud and 
fiercely — “ What liars ! ” 

Venus, peeping at him over the apple-boughs, gave out a 
diamond-like sparkle as though she were no greater thing than 
a loving eye, — the unseen nightingale, tuning its voice to 
richer certainties, broke into a fuller, deeper warble, — more 
stars flew, like shining fire-flies, into space, and on the lowest 
line of the western horizon a white cloud fringed with silver, 
floated slowly, the noiseless herald of the coming moon. But 
Walden saw nothing of the mystically beautiful transfiguration 
of the evening into night. His thoughts were elsewhere. 

“And yet” — he mused sorrowfully — “ How do I know? 
How can I tell? The clear childlike eyes may be trained to 
deceive, — the smile of the sweet, all too sweet mouth may be 
insincere — the pretty, impulsive confiding manner may be a 

mere trick and after all what is it to me? I 

demand of myself plainly and fairly — what is it to me ? ” 

He gave a kind of unconscious despairing gesture. Was 
there some devil in his soul whom he was bound to wrestle 
with by fasting and prayer, and conquer in the end? Or was 
it an angel that had entered there, before whose heavenly 
aspect he must kneel and succumb? Why this new and 
appalling loneliness which had struck himself and his home- 
surroundings as with an earthquake shock, shaking the founda- 
tions of all that had seemed so safe and secure? Why this 
feverish restlessness in his mind, which forbade him to occupy 
himself with any of the work waiting for him to do, and wlnVk 


278 God’s Good Man 

made him unhappy and ill at ease for no visible or reasonable 
cause ? 

He walked slowly across the lawn to his favourite seat under 
the apple-tree, — and there, beneath the scented fruiting boughs, 
with the evening dews gathering on the grass at his feet, he 
tried manfully to face the problem that troubled his own inner 
consciousness. 

“ Let me brave it out ! ” he said — “ Let me realise and 
master the thoughts that seek to master me, otherwise I am 
no man, but merely a straw to be caught by the idle wind of 
an emotion. Why should I shirk the analysis of what I feel 
to be true of myself? Lor, after all, it is only a weakness of 
nature, — a sense of regret and loss, — a knowledge of some- 
thing I have missed in life, — all surely pardonable if quelled 
in the beginning. She, — Maryllia Vancourt — is only a 
woman, — I am only a man. There is more than at first seems 
apparent in that simple qualification ‘ only 9 ! She, the woman, 
has charm, and is instinctively conscious of her power, as why 
should she not be? — she has tried it, and found it no doubt 
in every case effectual. I, the man, am long past the fervours 
and frenzies of life, — and charm, whether it be hers or that of 
any other of her sex, should have, or ought to have, no effect 
upon me, particularly in my vocation, and with my settled 
habits. If I am so easily moved as to be conscious of a 
certain strange glamour and fascination in this girl, — for she 
is a girl to me, nay almost a child, — that is not her fault, but 
mine. As well expect the sun not to shine or a bird not to 
sing, as expect Maryllia Vancourt not to smile and look sweet! 
Walking with her in her rose-garden, where she took me with 
such a pretty air of confiding grace, to show me her border of 
old French damask roses, I listened to her half -serious, some- 
times. playful talk as in a dream, and answered her kindly 
questions concerning some of the sick and poor in the village 
as best I could, though I fear I must occasionally have spoken 
at random. Oh, those old French damask roses! I have 
known them growing in that border for years, — yet I never 
saw them as I saw them to-day, — never looked they so darkly 
red and glowing ! — so large and open-hearted ! I fancy I shall 
smell their fragrance all my life ! ‘Are they doing well, do you 
think ? ’ — she said, and the little white chin perked up from 
under the pink ribbon which tied her hat, and the dark blue 
eyes gleamed drowsily from beneath their drooping lids, — and 

the lips parted, smiling and then then came the devil 

and tempted me! I was no longer middle-aged John Walden* 


God’s Good Man 


279 


the quiet parson of a country ‘cure/ — I was a man unknown 
to myself, — possessed as it were, by the ghost of a dead youth, 
clamouring for youthful joy ! I longed to touch that delicate 
little pink-and-white creature, so like a rose herself! — I was 
moved by an insane desire — yes! — it was insane, and for- 
tunately quite momentary, — such impulses are not uncom- 
mon ”■ — and here, as Jhe unravelled, to his own satisfaction, 
the tangled web of his impressions, his brow cleared, and he 
smiled gravely, — “ I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to 
draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into 
my arms — yes, — it was so, and why should I not confess it 
to myself? Why should I be ashamed? Other men have 
felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many 
years of life as I do. At any rate with me the feeling was 
momentary, — and passed. Then, — some moments later, — un- 
der the cedar-tree she dropped a rose from the cluster she 
had gathered, — and in giving it back to her I touched her 
hand — and our eyes met.” 

Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered be- 
yond his control. He let them go, — and listened, instead 
of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his 
garden. It was now being answered by others at a distance, 
with incessant repetitions of a flute-like warble, — and then 
came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the 
night with insistant passion. 

“ The Bird of Life is singing on the bough. 

His two eternal notes of ‘ I and Thou ’ — • 

O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, 

And would we hear it, we must hear it Now.” 

A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely 
Bourne rang back upon his memory. He rose to go indoors. 

"I am a fool!” — he said — “I must not trouble my head 
any more about a summer day’s fancy. It was a kind of ( old 
moonlight in the blood/ as Hafiz says, — an aching sense of 
loss,— or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying 
tree ! ” He sighed. “ I shall not suffer from it again, because 
I will not. Brent’s letter has arrived opportunely,— though 
I think— nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed. However, 
Miss Vancourt’s affairs have nothing to do with me, nor need 
I interest myself in what is not my concern. My business is 
with those who depend on my care, — I must not forget myself 
- — I must attend to my work.” 


280 


God’s Good Man 


He went into the house, — and there was confronted in hi* 
own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys, — that 
of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock 
respectfully at the sight of him. 

“ ’Evening Passon ! ” he said — “ I thought as ’ow I’d make 
bold to coom an’ tell ye my red cow’s took the turn an’ doin’ 
wonderful! Seems a special mussy of th’ A’mighty, an’ if 
there’s anythin’ me an’ my darter can do fur ye, ye’ll let us 
know, Passon, for I’m darn grateful, an’ feels as ’ow the beast 
pulled round arter I’d spoke t’ye about ’er. An’ though as ye 
told me, ’tain’t the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is 
worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye’ll step round 
to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an’ take 
a look at the finest litter o’ pigs as ever was seen in this 
county, barrin’ none! A litter as clean an’ sweet as daisies in 
new-mown hay, an’ now’s the time for ye to look at ’em, 
Passon, an’ choose yer own suckin’ beast for bilin’ or roastin’ 
which ye please, for both’s as good as t’other, — an’ there ain’t 
no man about ’ere what desarves a sweet suckin’ pig more’n 
you do, an’ that I say an’ swear to. It’s a real prize litter I do 
assure you! — an’ Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an’ all 
ye wants to do is just to coom along an’ choose your own ! ” 
“Thank you, Mr. Thorpe!” said Walden with his usual 
patient courtesy — “ Thank you very much ! I will certainly 
come. Glad to hear the cow is better. And is Miss Thorpe 
well?” 

“She’s that foine,” — rejoined the farmer — “that only the 
pigs can beat ’er! I’ll be tellin’ ’er you’ll coom to-morrer 
then ? ” 

“ Oh yes — by all means ! Certainly ! Most kind of you, 
I’m sure ! Good-evening, Thorpe ! ” 

“ Same t’ye, Passon, an’ thank ye kindly ! ” 

Whereat John escaped at last into his own solitary sanctum. 
“ My work ! ” he said, with a faint smile, as he seated him- 
self at his desk — “ I must do my work ! I must attend to the 
pigs as much as anything else in the parish ! My work ! ” 


XVIII 


Jpr was the first Sunday in July. Under a sky of pure and 
J cloudless blue the village of St. Rest lay cradled in floral 
and foliage loveliness, with all the glory of the morning sun- 
shine and the full summer bathing it in floods of living gold. 
It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the 
full flowering of its orchards and fields, and with all the wealth 
of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown 
thatched roofs of its clustering cottages by the masses of roses, 
red and white, that clambered as high as the tops of the 
chimneys, and turning back from thence, dropped downwards 
again in a tangle of blossoms, and twined over latticed windows 
with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some 
great festival. The stillness of the Seventh Day’s pause was in 
the air, — even the swallows, darting in and out from their 
prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fashioned eaves, 
seemed less busy, less active on their bright pinions, and 
skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease, suggestive of happy 
indolence and peace. The doors of the church were set 
wide open, — and Adam Frost, sexton and verger, was busy 
inside the building, placing the chairs, as was his usual Sunday 
custom, in orderly rows for the coming congregation. It was 
about half-past ten, and the bell-ringers, arriving and ascend- 
ing into the belfry, were beginning to ‘ tone ’ the bells before 
pealing the full chime for the eleven o’clock service, when 
Bainton, arrayed in his Sunday best, strolled with a casual air 
into the churchyard, looked round approvingly for a minute 
or two, and then with some apparent hesitation, entered the 
church porch, lifting his cap reverently as he did so. Once 
there, he coughed softly to attract Frost’s attention, but that 
individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any 
lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. 
Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken 
portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, where- 
upon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook’d forefinger. 

“ Adam ! Hi ! A word wi’ ye ! ” 

Adam came down the nave somewhat reluctantly, his counte- 


281 


282 


God’s Good Man 


nance showing signs of evident preoccupation and harass* 
xnent. 

“What now?” he demanded, in a hoarse whisper—-** Can’t 
ye see I’m busy?” 

“ O’ coorse you’re busy — I knows you’re busy,” — returned 
Bainton, soothingly — “I ain’t goin’ to keep ye back nohow. 
All I wants to know is, ef it’s true ? ” 

“ Ef what’s true ? ” 

“ This ’ere, wot the folks are all a’ clicketin’ about, --'that 
Miss Yancourt ’as got a party o’ Lunnon fash’nables stayin’ at 
the Manor, an’ that they’re cornin’ to church this marnin’ ? ” 

“ True enough ! ” said Frost — “ Don’t ye see me a-settin’ 
chairs for ’em near the poop it? There’ll be what’s called a 
* crush ’ I can tell ye ! — for there ain’t none too much room in 
the church at the best o’ times for our own poor folk, but when 
rich folks comes as well, we’ll be put to it to seat ’em. Mister 
Frimmins, he comes down to me nigh ’arf an hour ago, an’ he 
sez, sez he: * Miss Yancourt ’as friends from Lunnon stayin’ 
with ’er, an’ they’re cornin’ to church this marnin’. * Ope 
you’ll find room?’ An’ I sez to ’im, * I’ll do my best, but 
there ain’t no reserve seats in the ’ouse o’ God, an’ them as 
comes fust gits fust served.’ Ay, it’s true enough they’re 
a-comin’, but ’ow it got round in the village, I don’t know. I 
ain’t sed a wurrd.” 

“ 111 news travels fast,” — said Bainton, sententiously, 
“ Mister Primmins no doubt called on his young ’ooman at the 
‘Mother Huff’ an’ told ’er to put on ’er best ’at. She’s a 
reg’ler telephone tube for information — any bit o’ news runs 
right through ’er as though she was a wire. ’Ave ye told 
Passon Waldon as ’ow Miss Yancourt an’ visitors is a-comin’ 
to ’ear ’im preach?” 

“ No,” — replied Adam, with some vigour — “ I ain’t told ’im 
nothin’. An’ I ain’t goin’ to neither ! ” 

Bainton looked into the crown of his cap, and finding his 
handkerchief there wiped the top of his head with it. 

“It be powerful warm this m Suin’, Adam,” — he said— 
“Powerful warm it be. So you ain’t goin’ to tell Passon 
nothin’, — an’ for why, may I ask, if to be so bold'»' ‘ 

“ Look ’ere, Tummas,” — rejoined the verger, speaking slowly 
and emphatically — “ Passon, ’e be a rare good man, m’appen 
no better man anywheres, an’ what he’s goin’ to say to us this 
blessed Sunday is all settled-like. He’s been thinkin’ it out all 
the week. He knows what’s what. ’Tain’t for us, — ’tain’t for 
you nor me, to go puttin’ ’im out an’ tellin’ ’im o’ the world, 


God’s Good Man 


283 

the flesh an’ the devil all a-comin’ to church. Mebbe he’s 
been a-prayin’ to the Lord A’mighty to put the ’Oly Spirit 
into ’im, an’ mebbe he’s got it — just there ” And Adam 
touched his breast significantly. “ Now if 7 goes, or you goes 
and sez to ’im : ‘ Passon, there’s fash’nable folks from Lunnon 
cornin’ ’ere to look at ye an’ listen to ye, an’ for all we kin tell 
make mock o’ ye as well as o’ the Gospel itself in their ’arts ’ — 
d’ye think he’d be any the better for it? No, Tummas, no! 

I say leave Pas3on alone. Don’t upset ’im. Let ’im come out 
of ’is ’ouse wise an’ peaceful like as he alius clo, an’ let ’im 
speak as the fiery tongues from Heaven moves ’im, an’ as if 
there worn’t no fashion nor silly nonsense in the world. He’s 
best so, Tummas ! — you b’lieve me, — he’s best so ! ” 

“ Mebbe — mebbe ! ” and Bainton twirled his cap round and 
round dubiously — “ But Miss Yancourt ” 

“Miss Vancourt ain’t been to church once till now,” — said 
Adam, — ■“ An’ she’s only cornin’ now to show it to her friends. 
I doesn’t want to think ’ard of her, for she’s a sweet-looking 
little lady an’ a kind one — an’ my Ipsie just worships ’er, — an’ 
what my baby likes I’m bound to like too — but I do ’ope she 
ain’t a ’eathen, an’ that once cornin’ to church means cornin’ - 
again, an’ reg’lar ever arterwards. Anyway, it’s for you an’ 
me, Tummas, to leave Passon to the Lord an’ the fiery 
tongues, — we ain’t no call to interfere with ’im by tellin’ ’im 
who’s cornin’ to church an’ who ain’t. Anyone’s free to 
enter the ’ouse 0 ’ God, rich or poor, an’ ’tain’t a world’s 
wonder if strangers worships at the Saint’s Best as well as 
our own folk.” 

Here the bells began to ring in perfect unison, with regular 
rhythm and sweet concord. 

“I must go,” — continued Adam — “I ain’t done fixin’ the 
chairs yet, an’ it’s a quarter to eleven. We’ll be ’avin ’em all 
’ere d’rectly.” 

He hurried into the church again just as Miss Eden and 
her boy-and-girl ‘ choir ’ mitered the churchyard, and Bainton 
seeing them, and also perSeiving in the near distance the slow 
halting figure of Josey Letherbarrow, who made it a point 
never to be a minute late for divine service, rightly concluded 
that there was no time now, even if he were disposed to such 
a course, to ‘warn Passon’ that he would have to preach 
to ‘ fashionable folks ’ that morning. 

“ Mebbe Adam’s right,” he reflected — “ An’ yet it do worry 
me a bit to think of ’im cornin’ out of ’is garden innercent like 
an’ not knowin’ what’s a- waitin’ for ’im. For he’s been rare 


God’s Good Man 


284 

quiet lately — seems as if he was studyin’ an’ prayin’ from 
mornin’ to night, an’ he ain’t bin nowhere, — an’ no one’s tin to 
see ’im, ’cept that scarecrow-lookin’ chap, Adderley, which he 
stayed a ’ole arternoon, jabberin’ an’ readin’ to ’im. An’ what’s 
mighty queer to me is that he ain’t bin fidgettin’ over ’is gar- 
den like he used to. He don’t seem to care no more whether 
the flowers blooms or doesn’t. Them phloxes up against the 
west wall now — a finer show I never seen — an’ as for the lilum 
candidum, they’re a perfect picter. But he don’t notice ’em 
much, an’ he’s not so keen on his water-lilies as I thought he 
would be, for they’re promisin’ better this year than they’ve 
ever done before, an’ the buds all a-floatin’ up on top o’ the 
river just lovely. An’ as for vegetables — Lord! — he don’t 
seem to know whether ’tis beans or peas he ’as — there’s a kind 
o’ sap gone out o’ the garden this summer, for all that it’s so 
fine an’ flourishin’. There’s a missin’ o’ somethin’ some- 
wheres ! ” 

His meditations were put to an end by the continuous 
arrival of all the villagers coming to church; — by twos and 
threes, and then by half dozens and dozens, they filed in 
through the churchyard, exchanging brief neighbourly greet- 
ings with one another as they passed quietly into the sacred 
edifice, where the soft strains of the organ now began to mingle 
with the outside chiming of the bells. Bainton still lingered 
near the porch, moved by a pardonable curiosity. He was anx- 
ious to see the first glimpse of the people who were staying at 
the Manor, but as yet there was no sign of any one of them, 
though the time wanted only five minutes to eleven. 

The familiar click of the latch of the gate which divided the 
church precincts from the rectory garden, made him turn his 
head in that direction, to watch his master approaching the 
scene of his morning’s ministrations. The Reverend John 
walked slowly, with uplifted head and tranquil demeanour, 
and, as he turned aside up the narrow path which led to the 
vestry at the back of the church the faithful i Tummas ’ felt 
a sudden pang. ‘Passon’ looked too good for this world, he 
thought, — his dignity of movement, his serene and steadfast 
eyes, his fine, thoughtful, though somewhat pale countenance, 
were all expressive of that repose and integrity of soul which 
lifts a man above the common level, and unconsciously to him- 
self, wins for him the silent honour and respect of all his 
fellows. And yet there was a touch of pathetic isolation about 
him, too, — as of one who is with, yet not of, the ordinary joys, 
hopes, and loves of humanity, — and it was this which instinc* 


God’s Good Man 


285 


tively moved Bainton, though that simple rustic would have 
been at a loss to express the sense of what he felt in words, 
however there was no more leisure for thinking, if he wished 
to be in his place at the commencement of service. The serv- 
ants from Abbot’s Manor were just entering the churchyard- 
gates, marshalled, as usual, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, 
and her deaf but ever dutiful husband, — and though Bainton 
longed to ask one of them if Miss Vancourt and her guests 
were really coming, he hesitated, — and in that moment of 
hesitation the whole domestic retinue passed into church 
before him, and he judged it best and wisest to follow quickly 
in silence, lest, when prayers began, his master should note his 
absence. 

The building was very full, — and it was difficult to see 
where, if any strangers did arrive, they could be accommo- 
dated. Miss Eden, in her capacity as organist, was still play- 
ing the opening voluntary, but, despite the fact that there 
was no apparent disturbance of the usual order of things, there 
was a certain air of hushed expectancy among the people 
which was decidedly foreign to the normal atmosphere of St. 
Rest. The village lasses looked at each other’s hats with 
keener interest, — the lads fidgeted with their ties and collars 
more strenuously, and secreted their caps more surreptitiously 
behind their legs, — and the most placid-looking personage in 
the whole congregation was Josey Letherbarrow, who, in a 
very clean smock, with a small red rose in his buttonhole, and 
his silvery hair parted on either side and just touching his 
shoulders, sat restfully in his own special corner not far from 
the pulpit, leaning on his stick and listening with rapt atten- 
tion to the fall and flow of the organ music as it swept round 
him in soft and ever decreasing eddies of sound. The bells 
ceased, and eleven o’clock struck slowly from the church 
tower. At the last stroke, the Reverend John entered the 
chancel in his plain white surplice, spotless as new-fallen snow, 
— and as he knelt for a moment in silent devotion, the volun- 
tary ended with a grave, long, sustained chord. A pause, — and 
then the ‘ Passon ’ rose, and faced his little flock, his hand 
laid on the open ‘ Book of Common Prayer.’ 

“ When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness 
that he hath committed and doeth that which is lawful and 
right, he shall save his soul alive.” 

Walden’s voice rang clear and sonorous, — the sunshine 
pouring through the plain glass of the high rose-window behind 
and above him, shed effulgence over the ancient sarcophagus 


286 


God’s Good Man 


in front of the altar and struck from its alabaster whiteness a 
kind of double light which, circling round his tall slight figure 
made it stand out in singularly bold relief. 

“ If we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves and 
the truth is not in us, but if we confess our sins He is faithful 
.and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all 
unrighteousness.” 

A ripple of gay laughter here echoed in through the church 
doors, which were left open for air on account of the great 
heat of the day. There was an uneasy movement in the 
•congregation, — some men and women glanced at one another. 
That light, careless laughter was distinctly discordant. The 
Reverend John drew himself up a little more rigidly erect, 
and his face grew a shade paler. Steadily, he read on: — 

“ Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in 
sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins 
and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloke 
them before the face of Almighty God our Heavenly Father, 
but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent and obedient 
heart ” 

He ceased abruptly. A glimmer of colour, — a soft gliding 
swish of silken skirts, an affectation of tip-toe movement up 
the nave, — a wave of indescribable artificial perfume, — and 
then, a general stir and head-turning among the people showed 
that a new and unaccustomed element had suddenly merged 
into the simple human material whereof the village of St. Rest 
was composed, — an element altogether strange to it, not to 
say troublous and confusing. Walden saw, and bit his lips 
hard, — his hand instinctively clenched itself nervously on the 
‘Book of Common Prayer/ But his rigid attitude did not 
relax, and he remained mute, his eyes fixed steadily on the 
fashionably dressed new-comers, who, greatly embarrassed by 
the interruption their late entrance had caused, — an interrup- 
tion emphasised in so marked a manner by the silence of the 
officiating minister, made haste to take the chairs pointed out 
to them by the verger, with crimsoning faces and lowered eye- 
lids. It was a new and most unpleasant experience for them. 
They did not know, of course, that it was Walden’s habit to 
pause in whatever part of the service he was reading if anyone 
came in late, — to wait till the tardy arrivals took their places, 

• — and then to begin the interrupted sentence over again, — a 
habit which had effectually succeeded in making all his parish- 
ioners punctual. 

But Maryllia, whose guests they were, — Maryllia, who was 


God’s Good Man 287 

responsible as their hostess for bringing them to church at 
all, and who herself, with Cicely, was the last to enter after 
service had begun, felt a rebellious wave of colour rushing 
up to her brows. It was very rude of Mr. Walden, she thought, 
to stop short in his reading and cause the whole congregation 
to turn and stare curiously at herself and her friends just 
because they were a little bit behind time! It exposed them 
all to public rebuke! And when the stir caused by their en- 
trance had subsided, she stood up almost defiantly, lifting her 
graceful head haughtily, her soft cheeks glowing and her eyes 
flashing, looking twenty times prettier even than usual as she 
opened her daintily bound prayer-book with a careless, not to 
say indifferent air, as though her thoughts were thousands 
of miles away from St. Rest and all belonging to it. Glancing 
at the different members of her party, she was glad that one of 
them at least. Lady Eva Beaulyon, had secured a front seat, 
for her ladyship was never content unless she was well to the 
foremost of everything. She was a reigning beauty, — the 
darling of the society press, and the model of all aspiring 
photographers, — and she could hardly be expected to put up 
with any obscure corner, even in a church; — if she ever went 
to the Heaven of monkish legend, one could well imagine St. 
Peter standing aside for her to pass. Close beside her was 
another wonderful looking woman, a Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay,, 
a ‘leader’ in society, who went everywhere, did everything^ 
wore the newest coat, skirt or hat from Paris directly it was 
put on the market, and wrote accounts of herself and her 
1 smartness 9 to the American press under a 1 nom-de-plume.’ 
She was not, like Lady Beaulyon, celebrated for her beauty, 
but for her perennial youth. Her face, without being in the 
least interesting or charming, was smooth and peach-coloured, 
without a line of thought or a wrinkle of care upon it. Her 
eyes were bright and quite baby-like in their meaningless 
expression, and her hair was of the loveliest Titian red. She 
had a figure which was the envy of all modellers of dress- 
stands, — and as she was wont to say of herself, it would have 
been difficult to find fault with the ‘chic’ of her outward 
appearance. Painters and sculptors would have found her an 
affront to nature — but then Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay had no 
acquaintance with painters and sculptors. She thought them 
‘ queer 9 people, with very improper ideas. She was exceedingly 
put out by Walden’s abrupt pause in his reading of the 1 Dearly 
beloved,’ while she and the other members of the Manor house- 
party rustled into their places, — and when he recommenced 


288 


God’s Good Man 


the exordium she revenged herself by staring at him quizzically 
through a long-handled tortoiseshell-mounted lorgnon. But she 
did not succeed in confusing him at all, or in even attracting 
his attention, — so she merely shrugged her shoulders, with 
what the French call an ‘ air moqueuse/ 

The momentary confusion caused by the pause in the 
service soon passed, and the spirit of calm again settled on 
the scene after the 1 General Confession/ But Maryllia was 
deeply conscious of hurt and vexation. It was too bad of Mr. 
Walden, she kept on saying to herself over and over again, — 
too bad ! Her friends and herself were only five or six 
minutes late, and to have stopped in his reading of the 
service like that to put them all to shame was unkind — ‘ yes, 
unkind/ she said in her vexed soul, — vexed all the more 
because she was inwardly conscious that Walden was right 
and herself wrong. She knew well enough that she could 
have reached the church at eleven had she chosen, and have 
brought her friends punctual to time as well. She knew it 
was neither reverent nor respectful to interrupt divine wor- 
ship. But she was too irritated to reason the matter out 
calmly just then, — all she could think of was that she and 
her London guests had received a reproof from the minister 
of the parish — silent, but none the less severe — before all the 
villagers — before her own servants — and on the first occasion 
of her coming to church, too ! She could not get over it. 

“If he can see me,” she thought, “he will know that I 
am angry ! ” 

Chafed little spirit! — as if it mattered to Walden whether 
she was angry or not! He saw her well enough, — he noted 
her face 4 red as a rose/ with its mobile play of expression, 
set in its frame of golden-brown hair, — it flitted, sunbeam- 
like between his eyes and the ‘Book of Common Prayer’ — 
and, when he ceased reading, while the village choir, rendered 
slightly nervous by the presence of ‘ the quality/ chanted the 
‘ O come let us sing unto the Lord/ he was conscious of a 
sudden lassitude, arising, as he knew, from the strain he had 
put upon himself for the past few minutes. He was, how- 
ever, quite calm and self-possessed when he rose to read the 
Lessons of the Day, and the service proceeded as usual in the 
perfectly simple, unadorned style of ‘ that pure and reformed 
part of Christ’s Holy Catholic Church which is established 
in this Realm.’ How and then his attention wandered — once 
or twice his eyes rested on the well-dressed group directly 
opposite to him with a kind of vague regret and doubt. There 


God’s Good Man 


289 


was an emotion working in his soul to which he could scarcely 
give a name. Instinctively he was conscious that a certain 
embarrassment and uneasiness affected the ordinary members 
of his congregation, — he knew that their minds were dis- 
quieted and distracted, — that the girls and women were open- 
eyed and almost open-mouthed at the sight of the fashionable 
costumes and wondrous millinery which the ladies of Miss 
Vancourt’s house-party wore, and were dissatisfied with their 
own clothing in consequence, — and that the lads and men felt 
themselves to be awkward, uncouth and foolish in the near 
presence of personages belonging to quite another sphere 
than their own. He knew that the showy ephemera of this 
world had by a temporary fire-fly glitter, fascinated the simple 
souls that had been erstwhile glad to dwell for a space on 
the contemplation of spiritual and heavenly things. He saw 
that the matchless lesson of Christ’s love to humanity was 
scarcely heeded in the contemplation of how very much 
humanity was able to do for itself even without Christ’s love, 
provided it had money and the devil to ‘push’ it on! He 
sighed a little; — and certain words in the letter of his friend 

Bishop Brent came back to his memory “Many things 

seem to me hopeless, — utterly irremediable ... I grow 
tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden which is laid 
upon me.” Then other, and stronger, thoughts came to him, 
and when the time arrived to read the Commandments, a 
rush of passion and vigorous intensity filled him with a force 
far greater than he knew. Cicely Bourne said afterwards 
that she should never forget the thrill that ran through her 
like a shock of electricity, when he proclaimed from the 
altar : — “ GOD spake these words and said : Thou shalt have 
none other gods but me ! ” 

Looking up at this moment, she saw Julian Adderley in 
the aisle on her left-hand side, — he too was staring at Walden 
as though he saw the figure of a saint in a vision. But 
Maryllia kept her face hidden, listening in a kind of awe, as 
each ‘ Commandment ’ was, as it seemed, grandly and strenu- 
ously insisted upon by the clear voice that had no tone of 
hypocrisy in its whole scale. 

“Thou shalt NOT bear false witness against thy neigh- 
bour ! ” 

Lady Beaulyon forgot to droop her head in the usual 
studied way which she knew was so becoming to her, — the 
NOT was so emphatic. An unpleasant shiver ran through 
her daintily-clothed person, — dear me! — how often and often 


29 0 


God’s Good Man 


she had ‘ borne false witness/ not only against her neighbour* 
but against everyone she could think of or talk about! Where 
could be the fun of living if you must NOT swear to as many 
lies about your neighbour as possible? No spice or savour 
would be left in the delicate ragout of ‘swagger’ society! 
The minister of St. Rest was really quite objectionable, — a 
*anter, — a noisy, ‘stagey’ creature! — and both she and Mrs. 
Bludlip Courtenay murmured to each other that they ‘ did 
not like him.’ 

“ So loud ! ” said Lady Beaulyon, breathing the words deli- 
cately against her friend’s Titian-red hair. 

“ So provincial ! ” rejoined Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the 
same dulcet undertone, adding to her remark the fervent — 
T ‘ Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep 
-this law ! ” 

One very gratifying circumstance to these ladies, however, 
and one that considerably astonished all the members of Miss 
Vancourt’s house-party, as well as Miss Vancourt herself, was 
that no ‘ collection ’ was made. Neither the church, the poor, 
nor some distant mission to the heathen served as any excuse 
for begging, in the shrine of the ‘ Saint’s Rest.’ No vestige 
of a money-box or ‘plate’ was to be seen anywhere. And 
this fact pre-disposed them to survey Walden’s face and 
figure with critical attention as he left the chancel and 
ascended the pulpit during the singing of ‘ The Lord is my 
Shepherd.’ At the opening chords of that quaint and simple 
hymn, Cicely Bourne glanced at Miss Eden and Susie Pres- 
cott with a little suggestive smile, and caught their appealing 
glances, — then, as the quavering chorus of boys and girls 
began, she raised her voice as the ‘ leading soprano,’ and like 
a thread of gold it twined round all the notes and tied them 
together in clear and lovely unison: 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, 

He maketh me down to lie. 

In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, 

And the river runneth by.” 

Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken 
with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never 
heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon. 

“It’s Maryllia Yancourt’s creature,” — she whispered — “The 
ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really is a 
voice ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


291 


“ It really is, I think ! ” responded Lady Beaulyon, lan- 
guidly, turning her fair head to look at the plain sallow girl 
with the untidy black hair whom she had only seen for a few 
minutes on her arrival at Abbot’s Manor the previous day, 
and whom she had scarcely noticed. But Cicely saw her not 
— her whole soul was in her singing, — and she had no glance 
even for Julian Adderley, who, gazing at her as if she were 
already the prima donna in an opera, listened enrapt. 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; He feedeth me, 

In the depth of a desert land; 

And, lest I should in the darkness slip, 

He holdeth me by the hand.” 

Maryllia felt a contraction in her throat, and her eyes 
unconsciously, filled with tears. How sweet that hymn was ! 
— how very sweet! Tender memories of her father crowded 
upon her, — her mother’s face, grown familiar to her sight 
from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in 
the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a 
glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word 
1 Resurget ’ sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine, — and she 
began to feel that after all there was something in the Chris- 
tian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, 

My mind on Him is stayed, 

And though through the Valley of Death I walk, 

I shall not be afraid! ” 

Pure and true rang Cicely’s young, fresh and glorious voice, 
carrying all the voices of the children with it on the pulsating 
waves of the organ chords, — and an impression of high 
exaltation, serenity and peace, rested on the whole congrega- 
tion with the singing of the last verse 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; O Shepherd sweet. 

Leave me not here to stray; 

But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, 

And keep me there, I pray! 

Amen! ” 

During the silence that immediately followed, Walden stood 
erect in the pulpit, looking down upon the people. He. saw 
Maryllia’s face, — he saw all the eyes of her London friends 
fixed on him with a more or less critical and supercilious 


292 


God’s Good Man 


stare, — he saw his own ‘ flock ’ waiting for his first word with 
their usual air of respectful attention, — every small point and 
detail in his surroundings became suddenly magnified to his 
sight, — even the little rose in old Josey Letherbarrow’s smock 
caught his eye with an almost obtrusive flare. The blithe 
soft carol of the birds outside sounded close and loud, — the 
buzzing of a bumble-bee that had found its way into the 
church and was now bouncing fussily against a sunlit win- 
dow, in its efforts to pass through what seemed to itself clear 
space, made quite an abnormal noise. His heart beat heavily, 
— he fancied he could hear it thudding in his breast, — then, 
all at once, an inflow of energy rushed upon him as though 
the ‘ fiery tongues 9 of which Adam F rost had spoken, were in 
very truth descending upon him. Maryllia’s face! There it 
was — so winsome, so bright, and proud and provocative in its 
every feature, — and the old French damask rosbs growing in 
her garden borders could not show a prettier colour than her 
cheeks ! He lifted his hands. “ Let us pray ! ” 

The villagers all obediently dropped on their knees. The 
Manor 1 house-party ’ politely bent their heads. 

“ Supreme Creator of the Universe, without Whose power 
and permission no thought is ever generated in the brain of 
Thy creature, man; Be pleased to teach me, Thy unworthy 
servant. Thy will and law this day, that I may speak to this 
congregation even as Thou shalt command, without any care 
for myself or my words, but in entire submission to Thee and 
Thy Holy Spirit! Amen.” 

He rose. The congregation rose with him. Some of the 
village folks exchanged uneasy glances with one another. 
Was their beloved ‘Passon’ quite himself? He looked so 
very pale, — his eyes were so unusually bright, — and his whole 
aspect so more than commonly commanding. Almost nerv- 
ously they fumbled with their Bibles as he gave out the 
text: — “The twenty-sixth verse of the sixteenth chapter of 
the Gospel according to St. Matthew.” 

He paused, and then, as was his usual custom, patiently 
repeated — “ The sixteenth chapter of the Gospel according 
to St. Matthew, twenty-sixth verse.” Again he waited, while 
the subdued rustling of pages and turning over of books con- 
tinued, — and finally pronounced the words — “ What is a man 
profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own 
soul? ” Here he closed the Testament, leaning one hand upon 
it. He had resolved to speak ‘ extempore/ just as the mood 
moved him, and to make his discourse as brief as possible, — 


God’s Good Man 


293 


a mere twelve minutes’ sermon. For he knew that his ordi- 
nary congregation were more affected by a sense of restless- 
ness and impatience than they themselves realised, and that 
such strangers as were present were of a temperament more 
likely to be bored, than interested. 

“ What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world 
and lose his own soul ? ” — he began, slowly, and with emphasis, 
his eyes resting steadfastly on the fashionably-attired group 
of persons immediately under his observation — “ This was one 
of the questions put by the Divine Man Christ, to men, — and 
was no doubt considered then, as it surely is considered now, 
a very foolish enquiry. For to ‘ gain the whole world ’ is 
judged as so exceedingly profitable to most people that they 
are quite willing to lose everything else they have in exchange 
for it. They will gladly barter conscience, principle, honour 
and truth to gain 4 the whole world ’• — and as for the 4 soul/ 
that fine and immortal essence is treated by the majority as a 
mere poetic phrase — a figure of speech, without any real 
meaning behind it. I know well how some of you here to-day 
will regret wasting your time in listening, even for a few 
minutes, to anything about so obsolete a subject as the Soul! 
The Soul! What is it? A fiction or a fact? How many of 
us possess a Soul, or think we possess one? Of what is it 
composed, that it should be judged as so much more precious 
than the Body? — the dear Body, which we pamper and feed 
and clothe and cosset and cocker, till it struts on the face of 
the planet, a mere magnified Ape of conceit and trickery, 
sloth and sensuality, the one unforgivable anachronism in an 
otherwise perfect Creation! For Body without Soul is a blot 
on the Universe, — a distortion and abomination of nature, 
with which nature by and by will have nothing to do. Yet I 
freely grant that while Soul animates and inspires all 
creation, man cannot or will not comprehend it; he may, 
therefore, in part, be condoned for not endeavouring to 4 save ’ 
what he is not taught to truly recognise. To explain the 
c Soul ’ more clearly, I will refer you all to the Book of 
Genesis, where it is written — 4 And God made man of the dust 
of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of 
life, and man became a living Soul/ Thus we see that 4 Soul ’ 
is the breath of God, which is also the Eternal breath of 
Eternal Life. Each human being is endowed with this essence 
of immortality, which cannot die with death, being, as it is, 
the embryo of endless lives to come. This is why it is pre» 
eminently valuable — this is why we should take heed that it be 


294 


God’s Good Man 


not ‘ lost.’ It may be argued — ‘ How can anything be lost 
which is eternally alive ? ’ That proposition is easily an- 
swered. A jewel may be ‘lost* in the sea, but it is still 
existent as a jewel. In the same way a man may ‘lose’ his 
Soul, though he can never destroy it. It is the ‘breath of 
God’ — the germ of immortal Life, — and if one ‘loses’ it, 
another may find it. This is not only religion, — it is also 
science. In the present age, when all imagination, all poetry, 
all instinctive sense of the divine, is being subordinated to 
what we consider as Fact, there is one supreme mystery which 
eludes the research of the most acute and pitiless materialist 
— and that is life itself, — its origin, its evolution and its in- 
tention. We can do many wonderful things, — but we cannot 
re-animate the corpse of a friend ! Christ could do this, being 
Divinity incarnate, — but we can only wring our hands help- 
lessly, and wonder where the spirit has fled, — that spirit which 
made our beloved one speak to us, smile, and exchange the 
looks which express the emotions of the heart more truly than 
words. We want the ‘Soul’ we loved! The inanimate clay, 
stretched cold in its coffined rest, is a strange sight to us. We 
do not know it. It is not our friend! Our friend was the 
‘ Soul ’ that lived in the clay, — the ‘ breath of God ’ that 
moved our own ‘ Soul ’ to respond to it in affection and ten- 
derness. And we instinctively know and feel that though this 
‘breath of God’ is gone from us, it cannot be dead. And 
‘lost’ is not an expression that we would ever apply to it, 
because we hope and believe it is ‘found’ — found by its 
Creator, and taught to realise and rejoice in its own immor- 
tality. All religion means this, — the ‘finding’ of the Soul. 
The passion of our Saviour teaches this, — His resurrection. 
His ascension into Heaven, symbolises and expresses the same 
thing. Yet, in the words of Christ Himself, it would never- 
theless seem that the ‘ Soul ’ divinely generated and immortal 
as it is, can be ‘ lost ’ by our own act and will. ‘ What is a 
man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his 
own soul?’ I venture to think the text implies, that in the 
very attempt to ‘gain the whole world,’ the loss of the soul 
is involved. I am not going to detain you here this morning 
with a long exordium concerning how some of you can and 
may, if you choose, play havoc with the priceless gift God has 
bestowed upon each one of you. I only desire to impress upon 
you all, with the utmost earnestness, that it is idle to say 
among yourselves ‘We have no souls,’ or ‘The soul is an 
unknown quantity and cannot be proved.’ The soul is as rea* 


God’s Good Man 


295 


and actual a part of you as the main artery is of the body, — 
and that you cannot see it, touch it, or put it under the sur- 
geon’s dissecting knife is no proof that it is not there. You 
might as well say life itself does not exist, because you cannot 
see its primaeval causes or beginnings. The Soul is the 
centre of your being, — the compass of your life- journey, — • 
the pivot round which, whether you will or not, you shape 
your actions in this world for the next. If you lose that 
mainspring of motive, you lose all. Your conduct, your 
speech, your expression in every movement and feature all 
show the ungovemed and ungovernable condition in which 
you are. God is not mocked, — and in many cases, — taking 
the grand majority of the human race, — neither is man ! ” 

He paused. The congregation was very quiet. He felt, 
rather than saw, that Maryllia’s eyes were fixed upon him,— 
and he was perfectly aware that Lady Beaulyon, — whom ne 
recognised, as he would have recognised an actress, on account 
of the innumerable photographs of her which were on sale 
in the windows of every stationer in every moderate-sized 
town, — was gazing straight up at him with a bright, mocking 
glance in which lurked a suspicion of disdain and laughter. 
Moved by a sudden impulse, he bent his own regard straight 
down upon her with an inflexible cool serenity. An ugly 
frown puckered her ladyship’s brow at once, — and she low- 
ered her eyelids angrily. 

“ I say God is not mocked,” — he continued slowly; “ Neither 
is man! The miserable human being that has ‘ lost* his or 
her Soul, may be assured that the ‘gain’ of the whole world 
in exchange, will prove but Dead Sea fruit, bitter and taste- 
less, and in the end wholly poisonous. Loss of the Soul is 
marked by moral degradation and deterioration, — and this 
inward crumbling and rotting of all noble and fine feeling 
into baseness, shows itself on the fairest face, — the proudest 
form. The man who lies against his neighbour for the sake 
of worldly convenience or personal revenge, writes the lie in 
his own countenance as he utters it. It engraves its mark, — 
it can be seen by all who read physiognomy — it says plainly — 
4 Let not this man be trusted ! 9 The woman who is false and 
treacherous carries the stigma on her features, he they never 
so perfect. The creature of clay who has lost Soul, likewise 
lacks Heart, — and the starved, hopeless poverty of such an 
one is disclosed in him, even if he he a world’s millionaire. 
Moreover, 4 Soul ’ — that delicate, divine, eternal essence, is 
easily lost. Any earthly passion carried to excess, will over*- 


God’s Good Man 


296 

wVtplm it, and sink it in an unfathomable sea. It can slip 
away in the pursuit of ambition, — in schemes for self -aggran- 
disement, — in the building up of huge fortunes, — in the pomp, 
and show, and vanity of mundane things. It flies from selfish- 
ness and sensuality. It can be lost in hate, — it can equally 
be lost in love ! ” 

Again he paused — then went on — u Yes — for even in love, 
that purest and most elevating of human emotions, the Soul 
must have its way rather than the Body. Loss of the < Soul 9 
in love, means that love then becomes the mere corpse of 
itself, and must needs decay with all other such dust-like 
things. In every sentiment, in every thought, in every hope, 
in every action, let us find the t Soul/ and never let it go ! 
Bor without it, no great deed can be done, no. worthy task 
accomplished, no life lived honourably and straightly in the 
sight of God. It shall profit us nothing to be famous, witty, 
wealthy, or admired, if we are mere stuffed figures of clay 
without the ‘ breath of God 9 as our animating life principle. 
The simple peasant, who has enough ‘ soul 9 in him to 
reverently watch the sunset across the hills, and think of God 
as the author of all that splendour, is higher in the spiritual 
scale than the learned scholar who is too occupied with him- 
self and his own small matters to notice whether it is a sun- 
set or a house on fire. The ‘ soul 9 in a man should he his 
sense, his sight, his touch, his very inmost and dearest centre, 
— the germ of all good, — the generator of all peace and hope 
and happiness. It is the one and only thing to foster, — the 
one and only thing to save, — the only part of man which, 
belonging as it does to God, God will require again. Some 
of you here present to-day will perhaps think for a little 
while on what I have said when you leave this church, — and 
others will at once forget it, — but think, forget, or remember 
as you choose, the truth remains, that all of you, young and 
old, rich and poor, are endowed in your own selves with the 
i making of an angel/ The 1 Soul 9 within you, which you 
may elect to keep or to lose, is the infant of Heaven. It 
depends on you for care, — for sustenance; — it needs all your 
work and will to aid it in growing up to its full stature and 
perfection. It shall profit you nothing if you gain the whole 
world, and at death have naught to give to your Maker but 
crumbling clay. Let the Angel be ready, — the ‘ Soul 9 in you 
prepared, and full-winged for flight! According to the power 
and purity with which you have invested and surrounded it, 
will be its fate. If you have voluntarily checked and stunted 


God’s Good Man 


297 


its aspirations, even so checked and stunted must be its next 
probation, — but if you have faithfully done your best to 
nourish it with loving thoughts and noble aims, — if you have 
given it room to expand and shine forth with all its own 
original God-born radiance, then will its ascension to a higher 
sphere of action and attainment b© attended with unimagi- 
nable joy and glory. Let the world go, rather than lose the 
Divine Light within you! For that Light will, and must, 
attract all that is worth knowing, worth loving and worth 
keeping in our actual environment. The rest can be well 
spared, — whether it be money, position, notoriety or social 
influence, — for none of these things last, — none of them are 
in any way precious, save to such ignorant and misguided 
persons as are deceived by external shows. The Soul is all! 
3£eep but that ‘breath of God’ within you, and the world 
becomes merely one step of the ladder on which you may 
easily mount through everlasting love upon love, joy upon 
joy, to the utmost height of Heaven ! ” 

He ceased. For a moment there was a profound stillness. 
And then, with the usual formula — “ How to God the Father, 
God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be praise, honour and 
glory for ever and ever” — the congregation stood up. Lady 
Beaulyon shook her silken skirts delicately. Mrs. Bludlip 
Courtenay put her hand to her back hair coil and made sure 
that it was safe. And there was a general stir and movement, 
which instantly subsided again, as the people knelt to receive 
the parting benediction. Maryllia’s eyes were riveted on 
Walden as he stretched out his hands; — she was conscious of 
a certain vague awe and reverence for this man with whom 
she had so casually walked and talked, only as it seemed the 
other day; — he appeared, as it were, removed from her by an 
immeasurable distance, — his spirit and hers had gone wide 
apart, — his was throned upon a height of noble ideals, — hers 
was low, low down in a little valley of worldly nothings, — and 
oh, how small and insignificant she felt ! Cicely’s hand caught 
hers and gave it an affectionate little pressure, as they bowed 
their heads together under the solemnly pronounced blessing. 

“The peace of God which passeth all understanding, keep 
your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, 

and of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord,” here Walden 

turned ever so slightly towards the place where Maryllia 
knelt; “and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the 
Son and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with 
you always ! ” 


298 


God’s Good Man 


“ A men ! ” 

With this last response from the choir, the congregation 
began to disperse, and Walden, glancing over the little moving 
■crowd, saw the eager bustle and pressure of all its units to 
look at ‘the ladies from the Manor’ and take stock of their 
wonderful costumes. The grip of ‘the world’ was on them, 
and the only worshipper remaining quietly in his place, with 
hands clasped across his stick, and eyes closed, was Josey 
Letherbarrow. The old man seemed to' be praying inwardly — 
his face was rapt and serene. Walden looked down upon him 
very tenderly. A verse of Browning’s ran through his 
mind : — 

“ Grow old along with me ! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life for which the first was made. 

Our times are in His hand, 

Who saith: ‘A whole I planned/ 

Youth shows but half; trust God; see all, nor be afraid! ” 

And musing on this, he descended slowly from the pulpit 
and retired. 


XIX 


Qutside in the churchyard, there was a general little 
flutter of local excitement. Maryllia lingered there 
for several minutes, pointing out the various beauties in the 
architecture of the church to her guests, not that these indi a 
viduals were very much interested in such matters, for they 
were of that particular social type which considers that the 
highest form of good breeding is to show a polite nullity of 
feeling concerning everything and everybody. They were 
eminently ‘ cultured/ which nowadays means pre-eminently 
dull. Had they been asked, they would have said that it is 
dangerous to express any opinion on any subject, — even on 
the architecture of a church. Because the architect himself 
might be somewhere near, — or the architect’s father, or his 
mother or his great-grandam — one never knows! And by a 
hasty remark in the wrong place and at the wrong moment, 
one might make an unnecessary enemy. It is so much nicer 
— so much safer to say nothing at all ! Of course they looked 
at the church, — it would have been uncivil to their hostess 
not to look at it, as she was taking the trouble to call their 
attention' to its various points, and they assumed the usual 
conventional air of appreciative admiration. But none of 
them understood anything about it, — and none of them cared 
to understand. They had not even noticed the ancient sar- 1 
cophagus in front of the altar except as 1 some odd kind of 
sculptured ornament/ When they were told what it was, they 
smiled vacuously, and said : ‘ How curious ! ’ But further 
than this mild and non-aggressive exclamation they did not 
venture. The villagers hung about shyly, loth to lose sight 
of the ‘ quality 9 ; — two or three 1 county 9 people lingered also, 
to stare at, and comment upon, the notorious ‘beauty/ Lady 
Beaulyon, whose physical charms, having been freely adver- 
tised for some years in the society columns of the press, were 
naturally ‘ on show 9 for the criticism of Tom, Dick and 
Harry, — Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, marshalling her five mar- 
riageable daughters together, stalked magisterially to her 
private ’bus, very much en evidence, and considerably put out 
by the supercilious gaze and smile of the perfectly costumed 

299 


300 


God’s Good Man 


Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, — Julian Adderley, coming up in re- 
sponse to the beckoning finger of Cicely Bourne, was kindly 
greeted by Maryllia, introduced to one or two of her friends, 
and asked then and there to luncheon, an invitation he ac- 
cepted with alacrity, and, after this, all the Manor party 
started with their hostess to walk home, leaving the village 
and villagers behind them, and discussing as they went, the 
morning’s service and sermon in the usual brief and desultory 
style common to fashionable church-goers. The principal im- 
pression they appeared to have on their minds was one of 
vague amusement. The notion that any clergyman should 
have the * impudence ’ — (this was the word used by Mrs. 
Bludlip Courtenay) — to pause in the service because people 
came in late, touched the very apex of absurdity. 

“ So against his own interests too,” — said Lady Beaulyon, 
carelessly — “Because where would all the parsons be if they 
offended their patrons ? ” 

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, a thin gentleman with a monocle 
— assented to this proposition with a “ Where indeed ! 77 He 
considered that clergymen should not forget themselves, — they 
should show proper respect towards those on whom they de- 
pended for support. 

“Mr. Walden depends on God for support, I believe,” — 
said Cicely Bourne suddenly. 

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay fixed his monocle firmly in his left 
eye and stared at her. 

“ Really ! 77 he drawled dubiously — “ You surprise me ! 77 

“ T+ is funny, isn’t it?” pursued Cicely — “So unlike the 
Apostles ! ” 

Maryllia smiled. Lady Beaulyon laughed outright. 

“ Are you trying to be satirical, you droll child ? ” she 
enquired languidly. 

“ Oh no, I’m not trying,” — replied Cicely, with a quick 
flash of her dark eyes — “ It comes quite easy! You were talk- 
ing about clergymen offending their patrons. Now Mr. Wal- 
den hasn’t got any patron to offend. He’s his own patron.” 

“ Has he purchased the advowson, then ? ” enquired Mr. 
Courtenay — “ Or, to put it more conventionally, has he ob- 
tained it through a friend at court ? ” 

“I don’t know anything about the how or the why or the 
when,” — said Cicely — -“But I know he owns the living and 
the church. So of course if he chooses to show people what 
he thinks of them when they come in to service late, he can 
do it. If they don’t like it, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t ask 


God’s Good Man 


301 


anybody for anything, — he doesn’t even send round a collec- 
tion plate.” 

“No — 1 noticed that! — awfully jolly!” — said a good-na- 
tured looking man who had been walking beside Julian 
Adderley, — a certain Lord Charlemont whose one joy in life 
was motoring — “Awfully game! Ought to make him quite 
famous ! ” 

“ It ought, — it ought indeed ! ” agreed Adderley — “ I do not 
suppose there is another clergyman in England who obliter- 
ates the plate from the worship of the Almighty! It is so 
remote — so very remote ! ” 

“I think he’s a funny sort of parson altogether,” — said 
Cicely meditatively — ■“ He doesn’t beg, borrow or steal, — he 
isn’t a toady, he isn’t a hypocrite, and he speaks his mind. 
Queer, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Very! ” laughed Lord Charlemont — “ I don’t know another 
like him, give you my word ! ” 

“ Well, he can’t preach,” — said Lady Beaulyon, decisively — 
“I never heard quite such a stupid sermon.” 

All the members of the house-party glanced at one another 
to see if this verdict were generally endorsed. Apparently 
some differed in opinion. 

“ Didn’t you like it, Eva ? ” asked Maryllia. 

“ My dear child ! Who could like it ! Such transcendental 
stuff! And all that nonsense about the Soul! In these 
scientific days too ! ” 

“ Ah science, science ! ” sighed Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, drop- 
ping his monocle with a sharp click against his top waistcoat 
button — “ Where will it end ? ” 

Nobody volunteered a reply to this profound proposition. 

“ 1 Souls ’ are noted for something else than being saved for 
heaven nowadays, aren’t they, Lady Beaulyon ? ” queried Lord 
Charlemont, with a knowing smile. 

Lady Beaulyon’s small, rather hard mouth tightened into a 
thin line. 

“ I really don’t know ! ” — she said carelessly — “ If you mean 
the social 1 Souls,’ they are rather unconventional certainly, 
and not always discreet. But they are generally interesting— 
much more so, I should think, than such i Souls ’ as the parson 
preached about just now.” 

“ Indeed, yes ! ” agreed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay — “ I can 
imagine nothing more tiresome than to be a Soul without a 
Body, climbing from height to height of a heaven where there 
is no night, no sleep, no rest for ever and ever. Simply 


302 


God’s Good Man 


dreadful! But there! — one only goes to church for form’s 
sake — just as an example to one’s servants — and when it’s 
done, don’t you think it’s best to forget it as soon as pos- 
sible?” 

She raised her baby eyes appealingly as she put the question. 

Everybody laughed, or rather sniggered. Real honest laugh- 
ter is not considered ‘good form’ by certain sections of 
society. A gentle imitation of the nanny-goat’s bleat is the 
most seemly way for cultured persons to give vent to the 
expression of mirth. Maryllia alone was grave and preoccu- 
pied. The conversation of her guests annoyed her, though 
in London she had been quite well accustomed to hear people 
talk lightly and callously of religion and all religious subjects. 
Yet here, in the quiet country, things were different, some- 
how. God seemed nearer, — it was more difficult to blaspheme 
and ignore Him. And there was a greater sense of regret 
and humiliation in one’s self for one’s own lack of faith. 
Though, at the same time, it has to be reluctantly conceded 
that in no quarter of the world is religious hypocrisy and 
sham so openly manifested as in the English provinces, and 
especially in the small towns, where, notwithstanding the fact 
that all the Sundays are passed in persistent church and 
chapel going, the result of this strenuous sham piety is seen 
in the most unchristian back-biting and mischief-making on 
every week-day. 

But St. Rest was not a town. It was a tiny village apart, — 
utterly free from the petty pretensions of its nearest neigh- 
bour, Riversford, which considered itself almost ‘ metro- 
politan’ on account of its modern red-brick and stucco villas 
into which its trades-people ‘retired’ as soon as they had 
made enough money to be able to pretend that they had never 
stood behind a counter in their lives. St. Rest, on the con- 
trary, was simple in its tastes, — so simple as to be almost 
primitive, particularly in its religious sentiments, which the 
ministry of John Walden had, so far, kept faithful and pure. 
Its atmosphere was therefore utterly at variance with the 
cheap atheism of the modem world, and it was this dis- 
cordancy which struck so sharply on Maryllia’s emotional 
nature and gave her such a sense of unaccustomed pain. 

At the Manor there were a few other visitors who had not 
attended church, — none of them important, except to them- 
selves and the society paragraphist, — none of them distin- 
guished as ever having done anything particularly good, or 
useful in the world, — and none of them possessing any very 


God’s Good Man 


303 


unconventional characteristics, with the exception of two very 
quaint old ladies, who were known somewhat irreverently 
among their acquaintances as the ‘ Sisters Gemini/ They 
were of good birth and connection, but, being cast adrift as 
wrecks on the shores of Time, — the one as a widow, the other 
as a spinster, — had sworn eternal friendship on the altar of 
their several disillusioned and immolated affections. In the 
present day we are not overtroubled by any scruples of rever- 
ence for either old widowhood or old spinsterhood ; and the 
‘ Sisters Gemini ’ had become a standing joke with the self- 
styled ‘wise and witty ’ of London restaurants and late sup- 
pers. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby were their actual names, 
and they were happily unconscious of the unfeeling sobriquet 
bestowed upon them when they were out of hearing. Lady 
Wicketts had once been a reigning ‘beauty/ and she lived 
on the reputation of that glorious past. Miss Fosby aided 
and abetted her in this harmless self-deception. Lady Wick- 
etts had been painted by all the famous artists of her era, from 
the time of her seventeeth birthday to her thirtieth. She had 
been represented as a ‘ Shepherdess/ a ‘ Madonna/ a ‘ Girl 
with Lilies/ a ‘ Lady with a Greyhound/ a ‘ Nymph Sleeping/ 
and more briefly and to the purpose, as ‘Portrait of Lady 
Wicketts/ in every exhibition of pictures that had been held 
during her youth and prime. Miss Fosby carried prints and 
photographs of these works of art everywhere about with her. 
She would surprise people by casually taking one of them out 
of her album and saying softly “ Isn’t that beautiful ? ” 

And then, if the beholders fell into the trap and uttered 
exclamations of rapture at the ‘ Shepherdess ’ or the ‘ Ma- 
donna/ or whatever allegorical subject it happened to be, she 
would smile triumphantly and say — ‘ Lady Wicketts ! 9 — to all 
appearance enjoying the violent shock of incredulous amaze- 
ment which her announcement invariably inflicted on all those 
who received it. 

“ Not possible ! ” they would murmur — “ Lady Wicketts 
f ” 

“Yes, — Lady Wicketts when she was young/’ — Miss Fosby 
would say mildly — “She was very beautiful when she was 
twenty. She is sixty-seven now. But she is still beautiful,— 
don’t you think so? She has such an angelic expression! 
And she is so good — ah ! — so very good ! There is no one like 
Lady Wicketts ! ” 

Al l this was very sweet and touching on the part of Miss 
Fosby, so far as Miss Fosbj: alone was concerned. To her 


304 


God’s Good Man 


there was but one woman in the world, and that was Lady 
Wieketts. But the majority of people saw Lady Wicketts in 
quite another light. They knew she had been, in her time, as 
unprincipled as beautiful, and that she had ‘gone the pace’ 
more openly than most of her class. They beheld her now 
without spectacles, — an enormously fat woman, with a large 
round flaccid face, scarred all over by Time’s ploughshare 
with such deep furrows that one might have sown seed in 
them and expected it to grow. 

But Miss Fosby still recognised the ‘ Shepherdess/ the ‘ Ma- 
donna 9 and the ‘ Girl with Lilies/ in the decaying composition 
of her friend, and Miss Fosby was something of a bore in con- 
sequence, though the constancy of her devotion to a totally 
unworthy object was quaintly pathetic in its way. The poor 
soul herself was nearer seventy than sixty, and she was quite 
as lean as her idol was fat, — she had never been loved by 
anyone in all her life, but, — in her palmy days, — she had 
loved. And the necessity of loving had apparently remained 
a part of her nature, otherwise it would have been a sheer 
impossibility for her to have selected so strange a fetish as 
Lady Wicketts for her adoration. Lady Wicketts did not, in 
any marked way, respond to Miss Fosby’s tenderness, — she 
merely allowed herself to be worshipped, just as in her youth 
she had allowed scores of young bloods to kiss her hand and 
murmur soft nothings in her then ‘ shell-like 9 ear. The young 
bloods were gone, but Miss Fosby remained. Better the wor- 
ship of Miss Fosby than no worship at all. Maryllia had 
met these two old ladies frequently at various Continental 
resorts, when she had travelled about with her aunt, — and she 
had found something amusing and interesting in them both, 
especially in Miss Fosby, who was really a good creature, — 
and when in consultation with Cicely as to who, among the 
various people she knew, should he asked down to the Manor 
and who should not, she had selected them as a set-off to the 
younger, more flippant and casual of her list, and also because 
they were likely to be convenient personages to play chaper- 
ones if necessary. 

For the rest, the people were of the usual type one has got 
accustomed to in what is termed * smart 9 society nowadays, — 
listless, lazy, more or less hypocritical and malicious, — apa- 
thetic and indifferent to most things and most persons, save 
and except those with whom unsavoury intrigues might or 
would be possible, — sneering and salacious in conversation, 
bitter and carping of criticism, generally blase , and suffering 


God’s Good Man 


305 


from the incurable ennui of utter selfishness, — the men con- 
centrating their thoughts chiefly on racing, gaming, and Other 
Men’s Wives, — the women dividing all their stock of emotions 
between Bridge, Dress, and Other Women’s Husbands. And 
when Julian Adderley, as an author in embryo, found himself 
seated at luncheon with this particular set of persons, all of 
whom were more or less well known in the small orbit wherein 
they moved, he felt considerably enlivened and exhilarated. 
Life was worth living, he said to himself, when one might 
study at leisure the little tell-tale lines of vice and animalism 
011 the exquisite features of Lady Beaulyon, and at the same 
time note admiringly how completely the united forces of 
massage and self-complacency had eradicated every wrinkle 
from the expressionless countenance of Mrs. Bludlip Courte- 
nay. These two women were, in a way, notorious as 1 leaders ’ 
of their own special coteries of social scandalmongers and 
political brokers; Lady Beaulyon was known best among Jew , 
financiers; Mrs. Courtenay among American ‘ Kings’ of oil 
and steel. Each was in her own line a c power,’ — each could 
coax large advances of money out of the pockets of million- 
aires to further certain ( schemes ’ which were vaguely talked 
about, but which never came to fruition, — each had a little 
bevy of young journalists in attendance, — press boys whom 
they petted and flattered, and persuaded to write paragraphs 
concerning their wit, wisdom and beauty, and how they 
‘ looked radiant in pink ’ or ‘ dazzling in pea green.’ Con- 
templating first one and then the other of these ladies, Julian 
almost resolved to compose a poem about them, entitled ‘ The 
Sirens ’ and, dividing it into Two Cantos, to dedicate the 
Eirst Canto to Lady Beaulyon and the Second to Mrs. Courte- 
nay. 

“ It would be so new — so fresh ! ” he mused, with a bland 
anticipation of the flutter such a work might possibly cause 
among society dove-cots — “And if all the truth were told, so 
much more risque than ‘ Don Juan ’ ! ” 

Glancing up and down, and across the hospitable board, 
exquisitely arranged with the loveliest flowers and fruit, and 
the most priceless old silver, he noticed that every woman of 
the party was painted and powdered except Maryllia, and her 
young protegee, Cicely. The dining-room of Abbot’s Manor 
was not a light apartment, — its oak-panelled walls and raft- 
ered ceiling created shadow rather than luminance, — and 
though the windows were large and lofty, rising from the 
floor to the cornice, their topmost panes were of very old 


God’s Good Man 


306 

stained glass, so that the brightest sunshine only filtered, as 
it were, through the deeply-encrusted hues of rose and amber 
and amethyst squares, painted with the arms of the Van- 
courts, and heraldic emblems of bygone days. Grateful and 
beautiful indeed was this mysteriously softened light to the 
ladies round the table, — and for a brief space they almost 
loved Maiyllia. For her face was flushed, and quite uncooled 
by powder — ‘like a dairymaid’s — she will get so coarse if she 
lives in the country always ! ’ Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay confided 
softly to Lord Charlemont, who vaguely murmured — ‘ Ah ! 
Yes ! I daresay ! 9 quite without any idea of what the woman 
was talking about. Maryllia’s pretty hair too was ruffled, she 
having merely taken off her hat in the hall on her return 
from church, without troubling to go up to her room and 
‘ touch up ’ her appearance as all the other ladies who had 
suffered from walking exercise had done, — and her eyes looked 
just a trifle tired. Adderley found her charming with this 
shade of fatigue and listlessness upon her, — more charming 
than in her most radiant phases of vivacity. Her peach-like 
skin, warmed as it was by the sun, was tinted with Nature’s 
own exquisite colouring, and compared most favourably with 
the cosmetic art so freely displayed by her female friends 
on either side of her. Julian began to con verses in his head, 
and he recalled the lines of seventeeth-century Richard 
Crashaw : — 


"A Face that’s best 
By its own beauty drest, 

And can alone command the rest.” 

And he caught himself wondering why, — whenever he came 
near the Lady of the Manor, — he was anxious to seem less 
artificial, less affected, and more of a man than his particular 
i Omar Kayyam ’ set had taught him to be. The same praise- 
worthy desire moved him in the company of John Walden, 
therefore sex could have nothing to do with it. Was it 
‘ Soul ’ ? — that c breath of God ’ which had been spoken of in 
the pulpit that morning? 

He could not, however, dwell upon this rather serious propo- 
sition at luncheon, his thoughts being distracted by the con- 
versation, if conversation it could be called, that was buzzing 
on either side of the table, amidst the clattering of plates and 
the popping of champagne corks. It was neither brilliant, 
witty nor impersonal, — brilliant, witty and impersonal talk is 


God’s Good Man 


307 


never generated in modem society nowadays. “ T would much 
rather listen to the conversation of lunatics in the common 
room of an asylum, than to the inane gabble of modern 
society in a modern drawing-room ”• — said a late distin- 
guished politician to the present writer — “For the lunatics 
always have the glimmering of an idea somewhere in their 
troubled brains, but modern society has neither brains nor 
ideas.” Fragmentary sentences, often slangy, and occasion- 
ally ungrammatical, seemed most in favour with the Manor 
‘ house-party/ — and for a time splinters of language flew about 
like the chips from dry timber under a woodman’s axe, with- 
out shape, or use, or meaning. It was a mere confused and 
senseless jabber — a jabber in which Maryllia took no part. 
She sat very quietly looking from one face to the other at 
table with a critical interest. These were the people she had 
met every day more or less in London, — some of them had 
visited her aunt constantly, and had invited her out to din- 
ners and luncheons, ‘at homes/ balls and race parties, and 
all were considered to be ‘very select’ in every form that is 
commended by an up-to-date civilisation. Down here, in the 
stately old-world surroundings of Abbot’s Manor, they looked 
very strange to her, — nay, even more than strange. Clowns, 
columbines and harlequins with all their ‘ make-up ’ on, could 
not have seemed more out of place than these socially popular 
persons in the historic house of her ancestors. Lady Beaulyon 
was perhaps the most remarkable ‘revelation’ of the whole 
company. Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with 
quite an extravagant admiration, on account of her physical 
charm and grace, — and had also liked her sufficiently well to 
entirely discredit the stories that were rife about the number 
of her unlawful amours. That she was an open flirt could not 
be denied, — but that she ever carried a flirtation beyond 
bounds, Maryllia would never have believed. Now, however, 
a new light seemed thrown upon her — there was a touch of 
something base in her beauty — a flash of cruelty in her smile 
— a hardness in her eyes. Maryllia looked at her wistfully 
now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the 
disillusion was so complete. 

The luncheon went on, and was soon over, and coffee and 
cigarettes were served. All the women smoked with the ex- 
ception of Maryllia, Cicely and old Miss Fosby. The rings 
of pale blue vapour circled before Maryllia’s eyes in a dim 
cloud, — she had seen the same kind of mixed smoking going 
on before, scores of times, and yet now — why was it that she 


308 


God’s Good Man 


felt vaguely annoyed by a sense of discrepancy and vulgarity ? 
She could not tell. Cicely watched her lovingly, — and every 
now and again Julian Adderley, waving away the smoke of 
his own cigar with one hand, studied her face and tried to 
fathom its expression. She spoke but little, and that chiefly 
to Lord Charlemont who was on her left-hand side. 

“ And how long are you going to stay in this jolly old place, 
Miss Yancourt ? ” he asked. 

“ All my life, I hope,” — she said with a little smile— “ It is 
my own home, you know.” 

“Oh yes! — I know! — but — ” he hesitated for a moment; 
“ But your aunt ” 

“Aunt Emily and I don’t quite agree,” — said Maryllia, 
quietly — “ She has been very kind to me in the past, — but 
since Uncle Fred’s death, things have not been just as pleas- 
ant. You see, I speak frankly. Besides I’m getting on to- 
wards thirty, — it’s time I lived my own life, and tried to do 
something useful.” 

Charlemont laughed. 

“You look 'more like eighteen than thirty,” — he said— 
“ Why give yourself away ? ” 

“ Is that giving myself away ? ” and she raised her eyebrows 
quizzically — “ I’m not thirty yet — I’m twenty-seven, — but that’s 
old enough to begin to take things seriously. I’ve made up 
my mind to live here at Abbot’s Manor and do all I can for 
the tenantry and the village generally — I’m sure I shall be 
perfectly happy.” 

“How about getting married?” he queried. 

Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence. 

“ The old story ! ” she said — ■“ Men always think a woman 
must be married to be happy. It doesn’t at all follow. I 
know heaps and heaps of married women, and they are in 
anything but an enviable state. I would not change with one 
of them ! ” 

“Would you like to be another Miss Eosby?” he suggested 
in a mirthful undertone. 

She smiled. 

“Well — no! But I would rather be Miss Fosby than Lady 
Wicketts ! ” 

Here she rose, giving the signal for general adjournment to 
the drawing-room. The windows of this apartment were set 
open, and a charming garden vista of lawn and terrace and 
rose-walk opened out before the eyes. 


God’s Good Man 309 

* Now for Bridge ! ” said Lady Beaulyon — “ Fm simply 
dying for a game ! ” 

“ So am I ! 99 declared Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay — “ Lord 
Charlemont, you’ll play ? 99 

“ Charmed, I’m sure ! ” was the ready response. “ Where 
shall we put the card tables? Near the window? Such an 
enjoyable prospect ! ” 

“ We’ll have two tables, or even three,” — said Lady Beau- 
lyon ; “ I suppose most of us will play ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! ” “ Why of course ! ” “ I should think so ! ” 

“ Just what we’re all longing for! ” Such were the expressions 
of general delight and acceptance chorussed by the whole 
party. 

“ You’ll join, Lady Wicketts ? ” 

“ With pleasure ! ” and Lady Wicketts’ sunken old eyes 
gleamed with an anxious light over the furrows of flesh which 
encircled them, as she promptly deserted Miss Fosby, who had 
been sitting next to her, for the purpose of livelier entertain- 
ment; — and in a moment there was a general gathering to- 
gether in the wide embrasure of the window nook, and an 
animated discussion as to who should play Bridge and who 
should not. Maryllia watched the group silently. There were 
varying shades of expression on her mobile features. She 
held Cicely’s hand in her own, — and was listening to some 
of Adderley’s observations on quite ordinary topics, when 
suddenly, with an impulsive movement, she let Cicely go, 
and with an ‘ Excuse me! ’ to Julian, went towards her guests. 
She had made a resolve; — it would be an attempt to swim 
against the social current, and it was fraught with difficulty 
and unpleasantness, — yet she was determined to do it. “If 
I am a coward now,” she thought — “ I shall never be brave ! ” 
Her heart heat uncomfortably, and she could feel the blood 
throbbing nervously in her veins, as she bent her mind to 
the attitude she was about to take up, regardless of mockery 
or censure. Scraps of the window conversation fell on her 
ears — “ T won forty pounds last Wednesday, — it just paid my 
boot-bill ! ” said one young woman, laughing carelessly. 

“ Luckier than me ! ” retorted a man next to her — “ I had 
to pay a girl’s losses to the tune of a hundred. It’s all right 
though!” And he grinned suggestively. 

“Is she pretty?” 

“ Ripping ! ” 

“I want to make up five hundred pounds this week,” ob- 
served Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the most serious and 


310 God’s Good Man 

matter-of-fact way — “ I’ve won it all but a hundred and 
fifty.” 

“ Good for you ! ” 

“ Rather ! ” said Lord Charlemont, nodding approval — “ I’d 
like to get you for a partner ! ” 

“ I am considered lucky,” — smiled Mrs. Courtenay, with an 
air of virtuous pride — “I always win something!” 

“ Well, let’s begin at once, — we’ll play all the afternoon,” 
said Lady Beaulyon. 

“ Where are the tables ? ” “ And the cards ? ” 

“ Ask Maryllia ” 

But at that moment Maryllia stepped gently into their 
midst, her eyes shining, her face very pale. 

“ Not on Sunday, please ! ” she said. 

A stillness fell upon them all. They gazed upon each other 
in sheer stupefaction. Lady Beaulyon smiled disdainfully. 

“Not on Sunday? What are you talking about, Maryllia? 
Not what on Sunday ? ” 

“ Not Bridge,” — replied Maryllia, in her clear soft voice — 
“ I do not allow it.” 

Fresh glances of wonderment were exchanged. The men 
hummed and hawed and turned themselves about on their 
heels — the women simply stared. Lady Beaulyon burst out 
laughing. 

“ Ridiculous ! ” she exclaimed, — then flushed, and bit her 
lip, knowing that such an ejaculation was scarcely civil to her 
hostess. But Maryllia took no offence. 

“ Pray do not think me discourteous,” — she said, very 
sweetly. “I would not interfere with your pleasure in any 
way if I could possibly help it. But in this instance I really 
must do so.” 

“ Oh certainly, Miss Yancourt! ” “We would not think of 
playing if you do not wish it ! ” These, and similar expres- 
sions came from Lord Charlemont, and one or two others. 

“My dear Maryllia,” said Mrs. Courtenay, reproachfully — 
“ You are really very odd ! I have myself seen you playing 
Bridge, Sunday after Sunday at your aunt’s house in London. 
Why should you now suddenly object to your friends doing 
what you have so often done yourself ? ” 

Maryllia flushed a pretty rose-red. 

“ In my aunt’s house I had to do as my aunt wished, Mrs. 
Courtenay,” she said — “ In my own house I do as I wish ! ” 

Here her face relaxed into a bright smile, as she raised her 
candid blue eyes to the men standing about her — “ I’m sure 


God’s Good Man 


3i * 

you won’t mind amusing yourselves with something else than 
cards, just for one day, will you? Come into the garden,— 
it’s such a perfect afternoon! The rose-walk just opposite 
leads down to the bank of the river, — would some of you like 
to go on the water? There are two boats ready there if you 
would. And do forgive me for stopping your intended game? 
— you can play Bridge every day in the week if you like, but 
spare the Sunday ! ” 

There was a brief awkward pause. Then Eva Beaulyon 
turned her back indifferently on the whole party and stepped 
out on the lawn. She was followed by Mrs. Bludlip Courte- 
nay, and both ladies gave vent to small smothered bleats of 
mocking laughter as they sauntered across the grass side by 
side. But Maryllia did not care. She had carried her point, 
and was satisfied. The Sunday’s observance in Abbot’s Manor, 
always rigorously insisted upon by her father, would not be 
desecrated by card-playing and gambling under his daughter’s 
sway. That was enough for her. A serene content dwelt in 
her eyes as she watched her guests disperse and scatter them- 
selves in sections of twos and threes all over the garden and 
grounds — and she said the pleasantest and kindest things when 
any of them passed her on their way, telling them just where 
to find the prettiest nooks, and where to pick the choicest fruit 
and flowers. Lord Charlemont watched her with a sense of 
admiration for her < pluck.’ 

“ By Jove! ” he thought — “ I’d rather have fronted the guns 
in a pitched battle than have forbidden my own guests to play 
Bridge on Sunday! Wants nerve, — upon my soul it does!— 
and the little woman’s got it — you bet she has ! ” Aloud he 
said — 

“I’m awfully glad to be let off Bridge, Miss Vancourt ! A 
day’s respite is a positive boon ! ” 

“ Do you play it so often, then ? ” she asked gently. He 
flushed slightly. 

“ Too often, I’m afraid ! But how can I help it ? One must 
do something to kill time ! ” 

“ Poor Time ! ” said Maryllia, with a smile— “ Why should 
he be killed? I would rather make much of him while I 
have him ! ” 

Charlemont did not answer. He lit a cigar and strolled 
away by himself to meditate. 1 

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay just then re-entered the drawing- 
room from the garden, fanning herself vigorously with her 
handkerchief. 


312 


God’s Good Man 


“ It is so frightfully warm ! ” she complained — “ Such a 
burning sun ! So bad for the skin ! They are picking straw- 
berries and eating them off the plants — very nice, I daresay 
— but quite messy. Eva Beaulyon and two of the men have 
taken a boat and gone on the water. If you don’t mind, 
Maryllia, I shall rest and massage till dinner.” 

“ Pray do so ! ” returned Maryllia, kindly, smiling, despite 
herself; Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay’s life was well-nigh spent in 
‘ massage ’ and various other processes for effacing the prints 
of Time from her carefully guarded epidermis — “ But I was 
just going to ask Cicely to play us something. Won’t you 
wait five minutes and hear her ? ” 

Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing 
bored her so utterly as music, — but as it was only for ‘ five 
minutes,’ she resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a 
sign from Maryllia, went to the piano and played divinely, — 
wild snatches of Polish and Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes 
and romances, making the instrument speak a thousand things 
of love and laughter, of sorrow and death, — till the glorious 
rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in the gar- 
den and brought them near the open window to listen. When 
she ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. 
Bludlip Courtenay rose languidly. 

“ Yes, very nice ! ” she said — “ Very nice indeed ! But you 
know, Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful 
box things one sees advertised so much in the papers, the 
pianista or mutuscope or gramophone — no, I think it’s pianola, 
but I’m not quite sure — you would save such a lot of study 
and brain-work for this poor child! And it sounds quite as 
well! I’m sure she could manage a gramophone thing — I 
mean pianista-pianola — quite nicely for you when you want 
any music. Couldn’t you, my dear ? ” 

And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she 
put the question. Cicely’s eyes sparkled with fun and satire. 

“ Pm sure I could ! ” she declared, with the utmost serious- 
ness — “It would be delightful! Just like organ-grinding, 
only much more so! I should enjoy it of all things! Of 
course one ought never to use the brain in music ! ” 

“ Not nowadays,” — said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction — • 
“ Things have improved so much. Mechanism does every- 
thing so well. And it is such a pity to use up one’s vital 
energy in doing what one of those box-things can do better. 
And do you too play music ? ” 

And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be 


God’s Good Man 


313 


standing near her. He made one of his fantastic salutes. 

“Not I, madam! I am merely a writer, — one who makes 
rhymes and verses ” 

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on 
which at least five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously. 

“ Oh dear ! Don’t come near me ! ” she said, with a little 
affected laugh — “I simply hate poetry! I’m so sorry you 
write it! I can’t think why you do. Do you like it? — or are 
you doing it for somebody because you must?” 

Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking 
it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay’s abhorrence. 

“ I like it more than anything else in the world ! ” he said. 
“I’m doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else.” 

“ Keally ! ” — and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of dis- 
pleased surprise — “ How dreadful ! ” Here she turned to 
Maryllia. “Au revoir, my dear, for the present! As you 
won’t allow any Bridge, I’m going to sleep. Then I shall do 
massage for an hour. May I have tea in my own room ? ” 

“ Certainly ! ” said Maryllia. 

“ Thanks ! ” She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken 
skirts and a trail of perfume floating after her. 

The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances. 

“Wonderful woman!” said Adderley, — “And, no doubt, a 
perfectly happy one ! ” 

“ Why of course ! I don’t suppose she has ever shed a tear, 
lest it should make a wrinkle! ” And Cicely, as she made 
these remarks, patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly. 
“Look at my poor face and hers! Mine is all lined and 
puckered with tears and sad thoughts — she hasn’t a wrinkle ! 
And I’m fourteen, and she’s forty ! Oh dear ! Why did I cry 
so much over all the sorrow and beauty of life when I was 
young!” 

“ Ah — and why didn’t you have a pianista-pianola ! ” said 
Adderley. They all laughed, — and then at Maryllia’s sugges- 
tion, joined the rest of the guests in the garden. 

That same evening when Maryllia was dressing for dinner, 
there came a tap at her bedroom door, and in response to her 
1 Come in ! ’ Eva Beaulyon entered. 

“ May I speak to you alone for a minute ? ” she said. 

Maryllia assented, giving a sign to her maid to leave the 
room. 

“ Well, what is it, Eva ? ” said Maryllia, when the girl had 
gone — “ Anything wrong ? ” 

Eva Beaulyon sank into a chair somewhat wearily, and her 


314 God’s Good Man 

beautiful violet eyes, despite artistic ‘ touching up * looked 
hard and tired. 

“ Not so far as I am concerned,” — she said, with a little 
mirthless laugh — “ Only I think you behaved very oddly this 
afternoon. Do you really mean that you object to Bridge on 
Sundays, or was it only a put on ? ” 

“ It was a put off ! ” responded Maryllia, gaily — “ It stopped 
the intended game! Seriously, Eva, I meant it and I do 
mean it. There’s too much Bridge everywhere — and I don’t 
think it necessary, — I don’t think it even decent — to keep it 
going on Sundays.” 

“ I suppose the parson of your parish has told you that ! ” 
said Lady Beaulyon, suddenly. 

Maryllia’s eyes met hers with a smile. 

“The parson of the parish has not presumed to dictate to 
me on my actions,” — she said — “I should deeply resent it if 
he did.” 

“Well, he had no eyes for anyone but you in the church 
this morning. A mole could have seen that in the dark. He 
was preaching at us and for you all the while ! ” 

A slight flush swept over Maryllia’s cheeks, — then she 
laughed. 

“My dear Eva! I never thought you were imaginative! 
The parson has nothing whatever to do with me, — why, this 
is the first Sunday I have ever been to his church, — you know 
I never go to church.” 

Lady Beaulyon looked at her narrowly, unconvinced. 

“ What have you left your aunt for ? ” she asked. 

“ Simply because she wants me to marry Roxmouth, and I 
won’t!” said Maryllia, emphatically. 

“Why not?” 

“First, because I don’t love him, — second, because he has 
slandered me by telling people that I am running after his 
title, to excuse himself for running after Aunt Emily’s mil- 
lions; and lastly, but by no means leastly, because he is — 
unclean.” 

“All men are;” said Eva Beaulyon, drily — “It’s no use 
objecting to that ! ” 

Maryllia made no remark. She was standing before her 
dressing-table, singing softly to herself, while she dexterously 
fastened a tiny diamond arrow in her hair. 

“ I suppose you’re going to try and * live good ’ down here ! ” 
— went on Lady Beaulyon, after a pause — “It’s a mistake,— 


God’s Good Man 315 

no one born of human flesh and blood can do it. You can’t 
‘ live good ’ and enjoy yourself ! ” 

“No?” said Maryllia, tentatively. 

“No, certainly not! For if you never do anything out 
of the humdrum line, and never compromise yourself in any 
way. Society will be so furious with your superiority to itself 
that it will invent a thousand calumnies and hang them all 
on your name. And you will never know how they arise, 
and never be able to disprove them.” 

“ Does it matter ? ” — and Maryllia smiled — “ If one’s con- 
science is clear, need one care what people say ? ” 

“ Conscience ! ” exclaimed Lady Beaulyon — “ What an old- 
fashioned expression ! Surely it’s better to do something 
people can lay hold of and talk about, than have them invent 
something you have never done! They will give you no 
credit for virtue or honesty in this world, Maryllia, unless 
you grow ugly and deformed. Then perhaps they will admit 
you may be good, and they will add — ‘ She has no temptation 
to be otherwise.’” 

“ I do not like your code of morality, Eva,” said Maryllia, 
quietly. 

“ Perhaps not, but it’s the only one that works in our day ! ” 
replied Eva, with some heat, “ Surely you know that ? ” 

“I try to forget it as much as possible,” — and Maryllia’s 
eyes were full of a sweet wistfulness as she spoke — “ Espe- 
cially here — in my father’s home ! ” 

“ Oh well ! ” said Lady Beaulyon, with a touch of impa- 
tience — f< You are a strange girl — you always were ! You can 
‘live good , 9 or try to, if you like; and stay down here all 
alone with the doldrums and the humdrums. But you’ll be 
sick of it in six months. I’m sure you will ! Not a man will 
come near yon, — they hate virtuous women nowadays, — and 
scarce a woman will come either, save old and ugly ones! 
You will kill yourself socially altogether by the effort. Life’s 
too short to lose all the fun out of it for the sake of an ideal 
or a theory ! ” 

Here the gong sounded for dinner. Maryllia turned away 
from her dressing-table, and confronted her friend. Her face 
was grave and earnest in its expression, and her eyes were 
very steadfast and clear. 

“ I don’t want what you call * fun,’ Eva,” — she said — “ I 
want love! Love seems to me the only good thing in life. 
Do you understand ? You ask me why I left my aunt — it was 
to escape a loveless marriage, — a marriage that would be a 


God’s Good Man 


316 

positive hell to me for which neither wealth nor position 
could atone. As for i living good/ I am not trying that way. 
I only want to understand myself, and find out my own poser 
bilities and limitations. And if I never do win the love 1 
want, — if no one ever cares for me at all, then I shall be 
perfectly content to live and die unmarried.” 

“ What a fate ! ” laughed Lady Beaulyon, shrugging her 
white shoulders. 

“A better one than the usual divorce court result of some 
e society ’ marriages,” — said Maryllia, calmly — “ Anyhow, I’d 
rather risk single blessedness than united ‘ cussedness y ! Let 
us go down to dinner, Eva! On all questions pertaining to 
1 Souls ’ and modern social ethics, we must agree to differ ! v 


XX 


F 0B the next fortnight St. Rest was a scene of constant 
and unwonted excitement. There was a continual coming 
and going, to and from Abbot’s Manor, — some of the 
guests went away to be replaced by others, and some who 
had intended to spend only a week-end and then depart, 
stayed on, moved by unaccountable fascination, not only for 
their hostess, but for the general pleasantness of the house, 
and the old-world, tranquil and beautiful surroundings of the 
whole neighbourhood. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip 
Courtenay had brought their newest up-to-date motor-cars 
with them, — terrible objects to the villagers whenever they 
dashed, like escaped waggons off an express train, through 
the little street, with their horns blowing violently as though 
in a fog at sea. Mrs. Frost was ever on the alert lest any 
of her smaller children should get in the way of these huge 
rubber-tyred vehicles tearing along at reckless speed, — and 
old Josey Letherbarrow resolutely refused to go outside his 
garden gate except on Sundays. 

“ Not but what I ain’t willin’ an’ cheerful to die whenever 
the Lord A’mighty sends for me;” — he would say — “But I 
ain’t got no fancy for bein’ gashed and jambled.” 

‘ Gashed and jambled,’ was his own expression, — one that 
had both novelty and suggestiveness. Unfortunately, it hap- 
pened that a small pet dog belonging to one of the village 
schoolboys, no other than Bob Keeley, the admitted sweet- 
heart of Kitty Spruce, had been run over by Mr. Bludlip 
Courtenay, as that gentleman, driving his car himself, and 
staring indifferently through his monocle, had ‘timed’ his 
rush through the village to a minute and a half, on a bet 
with Lord Charlemont, — and ‘ gashed and jambled ’ was the 
only description to apply to the innocent little animal as it 
lay dead in the dust. Bob Keeley cried for days, — cried so 
much, in fact, over what he considered ‘ a wicked murder ’ 
that his mother sent for ‘Passon’ to console him. And 
Walden, with his usual patience, listened to the lad’s sobbing 
tale: 

“ Which the little beast wor my friend ! ” he gasped amid 
3i7 


God’s Good Man 


318 

his tears — “An’ he wor Kitty’s friend too! Kitty’s cryin* 
’erself sick, same as me! I’d ’ad ’im from a pup — Kitty 
carried ’im in ’er apron when ’e was a week old, — he loved 
me — yes ’e did! — an’ ’e slept in my weskit iviry night of ’is 
life ! — an’ he ’adn’t a fault in ’im, all lovin’ an’ true ! — an’ now 
’e’s gone — an’ — an’ — I hate the quality up at the Manor — yes 
I do! — I hate ’em! — an’ if Miss Vancourt ’adn’t never come 
’ome, my doggie ’ad been livin’ now, an’ we’d all a’ bin ’appy ! ” 

Walden patted the boy’s rough towzled head gently, and 
thought of his faithful ‘ Nebbie.’ It would have been mere 
hypocrisy to preach resignation to Bob, when he, the Reverend 
John, knew perfectly well that if his own canine comrade 
had been thus cruelly slain, he also would have ‘hated the 
quality.’ 

“Look here. Bob,” he said at last, — “I know just how 
you feel! It’s just as bad as bad can be. But try and be 
a man, won’t you? You can’t bring the poor little creature 
back to life again, — and it’s no use frightening your mother 
with all this grief for what cannot be helped. Then there’s 
poor Kitty — she ‘hates the quality’ ; — her little heart is sore 
and full of bad feelings — all for the sake of you and your 
dog, Bob! She’s giving her mother no end of trouble up at 
the Manor, crying and fretting — suppose you go and see her? 
Talk it over together, like two good children, and try if you 
can’t comfort each other. What do you say ? ” 

Bob rose from beside the chair where he had flung himself 
on his knees when Walden had entered his mother’s cottage, — • 
and rubbed his knuckles hard into his eyes with a long and 
dismal sniff. 

“ I’ll try, sir ! ” he said chokingly, and then suddenly seizing 
‘ Passon’s ’ hand, he kissed it with boyish fervour, caught up 
his cap, and ran out. Walden stood for a moment inert, — 
there was an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. 

“ Poor lad ! ” he said to himself, — ■“ He is suffering as much 
in his way as older people suffer in theirs, — perhaps even more, 
— because to the young, injustice always seems strange — to 
the old it has become customary and natural ! ” 

He sighed, — and with a pleasant word or two to Mrs. Keeley, 
who waited at her door for him to come out, and who thanked 
him profusely for coming to ‘hearten up the boy,’ he went 
on his usual round through the village, uncomfortably con- 
scious that perhaps his first impressions respecting Miss Van- 
caurt’s home-coming were correct, — and that it might have 


God’s Good Man 


319 

been better for the peace and happiness of all the simple 
inhabitants of St. Rest, if she had never come. 

Certainly there was no denying that a change had crept 
over the little sequestered place, — a change scarcely percep- 
tible, but nevertheless existent. A vague restlessness pervaded 
the atmosphere, — each inhabitant of each cottage was always 
on the look-out for a passing glimpse of one of the Abbot’s 
Manor guests, or one of the Abbot’s Manor servants, — it did 
not matter which, so long as something or somebody from the 
Manor came along. Sir Morton Pippitt had, of course, not 
failed to take full advantage of any slight surface or social 
knowledge he possessed of Miss Vancourt’s guests, — and had, 
with his usual bluff pomposity, invited them all over to Bads- 
worth Hall. Some of them accepted his invitation, — others 
declined it. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay 
discovered him to be a ‘ game old boy ’ — while Lady Wicketts 
and Miss Fosby found something congenial in the society of 
Miss .Tabitha Pippitt, who, cherishing as she did, an antique- 
virgin passion for the Reverend John Walden, whom her 
father detested, had come to regard herself as a sort of silent 
martyr to the rough usages of this world, and was therefore 
not unwilling to listen to the long stories of life’s disillusions 
which Lady Wicketts unravelled for her benefit, and which 
Miss Fosby, with occasional references to the photographs and 
prints of the ‘ Madonna ’ or the ( Girl with Lilies ’ tearfully 
confirmed. So the motor-cars continually flashed between 
Abbot’s Manor and Badsworth Hall, and Lady Beaulyon ap- 
parently found so much to amuse her that she stayed on longer 
than she had at first intended. So did Mrs. Bludlip Courte- 
nay. They had their reasons for prolonging their visit, — 
reasons more cogent than love of fresh air, or admiration of 
pastoral scenery. Both of them kept up an active correspond- 
ence with Maryllia’s aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, a lady who 
was their * very dear ’ friend, owing to her general usefulness 
in the matter of money. And Mrs. Fred having a fixed plan 
in her mind concerning the welfare and good establishment of 
her niece, they were not unwilling to assist her in the further- 
ance of her views, knowing that whatever trouble they took 
would be substantially rewarded 1 under the rose.’ 

So they remained, on one excuse or the other, — while other 
guests came or went, and took long walks and motor-rides in 
the neighbourhood and amused themselves pretty much in 
their own way, Maryllia rightly considering that to be the 
truest form of hospitality. She herself, however, was living a 


God’s Good Man 


320 

somewhat restrained life among them, — and she began to 
realise more than ever the difference between ‘ friends ’ and 
‘ acquaintances/ and the hopeless ennui engendered by the 
proximity of the latter, without the sympathy of the former. 
She was learning the lesson that cannot be too soon mastered 
by everyone who seeks for pure happiness in this world — • 
‘ The Kingdom of God is within you/ In herself she was 
not content, — yet she knew no way in which to make herself 
contented. “ I want something ” — she said to herself — “ Yet 
I do not know what I want.” Her pleasantest time during 
the inroad of her society friends, was when, after her daily 
housekeeping consultations with Mrs. Spruce, she could go 
and have a chat with Cicely in that young person’s small 
study, which was set apart for her, next to her bedroom nearly 
at the top of the house, and which commanded a wide view 
of the Manor park-lands, and the village of St. Best, with 
the silvery river winding through it, and the spire of the 
church rising from the surrounding foliage like a finger point- 
ing to heaven. And she also found relief from the strain of 
constant entertaining by rising early in the mornings and 
riding on her favourite ( Cleopatra ’ all over her property, 
calling on her new agent, Frank Stanways, and his wife, and 
chatting with the various persons in her employ. She did 
not however go much into the village, and on this point one 
morning her agent ventured to observe 

“ Old Mr. Letherbarrow has been saying that he has not 
seen you lately. Miss Vancourt, — not since your friends came 
down. He seems to miss you very much.” 

Maryllia, swaying lightly in her saddle, stooped over her 
mare’s neck and patted it, to hide sudden tears that sprang, 
she knew not why, to her eyes. 

“Poor Josey!” she said — “I’m sorry! Tell him I’ll come 
as soon as all my visitors are gone — they will not stay long. 
The dinner-party next week concludes everything. Then I 
shall have time to go about the village as usual.” 

“ That will be delightful ! ” said Alicia Stanways, a bright 
little woman, whose introduction and supervision of a ‘ model 
dairy’ on the Abbot’s Manor estate was the pride of her life 
— “It really makes all the people happy to see you! Little 
Ipsie Frost was actually crying for you the other day.” 

“Was she? Poor little soul! The idea of a child crying 
for me ! It’s quite a novel experience ! ” And Maryllia 
laughed — “ But I don’t think I’m wanted at all in the village. 
Mr. Walden does everything.” 


God’s Good Man 


321 


“ So he does ! ” — agreed Stanways — “ He’s a true * minister 9 
if there ever was one. Still, he has not been quite so much 
about lately.” 

“No?” queried Maryllia — “I expect he’s very busy!” 

“ I think he has only one wish in the world ! ” said Mrs. 
Stanways, smiling. 

“ What is that ? ” asked Maryllia, still stroking 1 Cleopatra’s 9 
glossy neck thoughtfully. 

“To fill the big rose-window in the church with stained 
glass,— real ‘ old 9 stained glass ! He’s always having some bits 
sent to him, and I believe he passes whole hours piecing it to- 
gether. It’s his great hobby. He won’t have a morsel that is 
not properly authenticated. He’s dreadfully particular, — but 
then all old bachelors are ! ” 

Maryllia smiled, and bidding them good-morning cantered 
off. She was curiously touched at the notion of old Josey 
Letherbarrow missing her, and ‘ Baby Hippolyta 9 crying for 
her. 

“Not one of my society friends would miss me!” — she said 
to herself — “ And certainly I know nobody who would cry for 
me ! ” She checked her thoughts — “ Except Cicely. She 
would miss me, — she would cry for me! But, in plain matter- 
of-fact terms, there is no one else who cares for me. Only 
Cicely ! ” 

She looked up as she rode, and saw that she was passing the 
‘Five Sisters,’ now in all the glorious panoply of opulent 
summer leafage. Moved by a sudden impulse, she galloped 
up the knoll, and drew rein exactly at the spot where she had 
given Oliver Leach his dismissal, and where she had first met 
John Walden. The wind rustled softly through the boughs, 
which bent and swayed before her, as though the grand old 
trees said : e Thanks to you, we live ! 9 Birds flew from twig to 
twig, — and the persistent murmur of many bees working amid 
the wild thyme which spread itself in perfumed purple patches 
among the moss and grass, sounded like the far-off hum of a 
human crowd. 

“ I did something useful when I saved you, you dear old 
beeches ! ” she said — “ But the worst of it is I’ve done nothing 
worth doing since ! ” 

She sighed, and her pretty brows puckered into a perplexed 
line, as she slowly guided ‘ Cleopatra ’ down the knoll again. 

“ It’s all so lonely ! ” she murmured — “ I felt just a little 
dull before Eva Beaulyon and the others came, — but it’s ever 
go much duller with them than without them ! ” 


322 


God’s Good Man 


That afternoon, in compliance with a particularly pressing 
request from Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, she accompanied a 
party of her guests to Badsworth, driving thither in Lord 
Charlemont’s motor. Sir Morton Pippitt, red-faced and 
pompous as usual, met them at the door, in all the resplen- 
dency of new grey summer tweeds and prominent white waist- 
coat, his clean-shaven features shining with recent soap, and 
his white hair glistening like silver. He was quite in his 
element, as he handed out the beautiful Lady Beaulyon from 
the motor-car, and expressed his admiration for her looks in 
no unmeasured terms, — he felt himself to be almost an actual 
Badsworth, of Badsworth Hall, as he patted Lord Charlemont 
familiarly on the shoulder, and called him ‘My dear boy ! ’ 
As he greeted Maryllia, he smiled at her knowingly. 

“I think I have a friend of yours here to-day, my dear 
lady ! ” he said with an expressive chuckle — “ Someone who 
is most anxious to see you ! ” And escorting her with ob- 
trusive gallantry into the hall, he brought her face to face 
with a tall, elegant, languid-looking man who bowed pro- 
foundly ; “ I believe you know Lord B-oxmouth ? ” 

The blood sprang to her brows, — and for a moment she was 
so startled and angry that she could scarcely breathe. A 
swift glance from under her long lashes showed her the 
situation — how Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay was watching her with 
ill-concealed amusement, and how all the rest of the party 
were expectant of a ‘ sensation.’ She saw it all in a moment, — 
she recognised that a trap had been laid for her to fall into 
unwarily, and realising the position she rose to it at once. 

“ How do you do ! ” she said carelessly, nodding her head 
without giving her hand — “I thought I should meet you this 
afternoon ! ” 

“ Did you really ! ” murmured Roxmouth — “ Some magnetic 
current of thought ” 

“Yes, — ‘by the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked 
this way comes ! ’ — that sort of sensation, you know ! ” and 
she laughed; then perceiving a man standing in the back- 
ground whose sleek form and lineaments she instantly recog- 
nised, she added “And how are you, Mr. Longford? Did 

you bring Lord Roxmouth here, or did he bring you ? ” 

Marius Longford, ‘ of the Savage and Savile,’ was taken by 
surprise, and looked a little uncomfortable. He stroked one 
pussy whisker. 

“We came together,” he explained in his affected falsetto 


God’s Good Man 


323 

voice “ Sir Morton Pippitt was good enough to invite me 

to bring any friend, and so ” 

“ I see ! ” and Maryllia lifted her little head with an un- 
conscious gesture, implying pride, or disdain, or both, as she 
passed with the other guests into the Badsworth Hall drawing- 
room; “ The country is so delightful at this time of year!” 

She moved on. Lord Boxmouth stroked down his fair 
moustache to hide a smile, and quietly followed her. He was 
a good-looking man, tall and well-built, with a rather pale, 
clean-cut face, and sandy hair brushed very smooth; form 
and respectability were expressed in the very outline of his 
figure and the fastidious neatness and nicety of his clothes. 
Entering the room where Miss Tabitha Pippitt was solemnly 
presiding over the tea-tray with a touch-me-not air of in- 
flexible propriety, he soon made himself the useful and agree- 
able centre of a group of ladies, to whom he carried cake, 
bread-and-butter and other light refreshments, with punc- 
tilious care, looking as though his life depended upon the 
exact performance of these duties. Once or twice he glanced 
at Maryllia, and decided that she appeared younger and pret- 
tier than when he had seen her in town. She was chatting 
with some of the country people, and Lord Boxmouth waited 
for several moments in vain for an opportunity to intervene. 
Finally, securing a cup of iced coffee, he carried it to her. 

“ No, thanks!” she said, as he approached. 

“ Strawberries ? ” he suggested, appealingly. 

“ Nothing, thank you ! ” 

Smiling a little, he looked at her. 

“I wish you would give me a word, Miss Vancourt! Won’t 
you ? ” 

“ A dozen, if you like ! ”■ — she replied, indifferently — “ How 
is Aunt Emily ? ” 

“ I am glad you ask after her ! ” — he said, impressively— 
“ She is well, — but she misses you very much.” He paused, 
and added in a lower tone — “ So do I ! ” 

She was silent. 

“I know you are angry!” he went on softly — “You went 
away from London to avoid me, and you are vexed to see me 
down here. But I couldn’t resist the temptation of coming. 
Marius Longford told me he had called upon you with Sir 
Morton Pippitt at Abbot’s Manor, — and I got him to bring 
me down on a visit to Badsworth Hall, — only to be near youl 
You are looking quite Wely, Maryllia!” 


324 God’s Good Man 

She raised her eyes and fixed them full on him. His own 
fell. 

“ I said you were angry, and you are ! ” he murmured — 
“ But you have the law in your own hands, — you need not ask 
me to your house unless you like ! ” 

The buzz of conversation in the room was now loud and 
incessant. Sir Morton Pippitt’s ‘ afternoon teas ’ were always 
more or less bewildering and brain-jarring entertainments, 
where a great many people of various i sets/ in the town of 
Riversford and the county generally, came together, without 
knowing each other, or wishing to know each other, — where 
the wife of the leading doctor in Riversford, for example, 
glowered scorn and contempt on Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, the 
wife of the brewer in the same town, and where those of high 
and unimpeachable i family/ like Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, 
whose mother was a Beedle, stared frigidly and unseeingly at 
every one hailing from the same place as creatures beneath 
her notice. 

For — “ Thank God ! ” — said Mrs. Poreham, with feeling, — 
“ I do not live in Riversford. I would not live in Riversford 
if I were paid a fortune to do so! My poor mother never 
permitted me to associate with tradespeople. There are no 
ladies or gentlemen in Riversford, — I should be expected to 
shake hands with my butcher if I resided there, — but I am 
proud and glad to say that at present I know nobody in the 
place. I never intend to know anybody there ! ” 

Several curious glances were turned upon Miss Vancourt 
as she stood near an open window looking out on the Bads- 
worth Hall i Italian Garden/ — a relic of Badsworth times, — 
her fair head turned away from the titled aristocrat who bent 
towards her, as it seemed, in an attitude of humble appeal, — 
and one or two would-be wise persons nodded their heads and 
whispered — “ That’s the man she’s engaged to.” “ Oh, really ! 

and his name ?” “Lord Roxmouth; — will be Duke 

of Ormistoune ” “ Good gracious ! That woman a 

Duchess ! ” snorted Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, as she heard — - 
“ The men must be going mad ! ” Which latter remark im- 
plied that had she not unfortunately married a brewer, she 
might easily have secured the Ormistoune ducal coronet her- 
self. 

Unaware of the gossip going on around her, Maryllia stayed 
where she was at the window, coldly silent, her eyes fixed on 
the glowing flower-beds patterned in front of her, — the gon 
geous mass of petunias, and flame-colored geraniums, — tht 


God’s Good Man 


325 


rich saffron and brown tints of thick clustered calceolarias, — 
the purple and crimson of pendulous fuchsias, whose blossoms 
tumbled one upon the other in a riot of splendid colour, — and 
all at once her thoughts strayed capriciously to the cool green 
seclusion of John Walden’s garden. She remembered the 
spray of white lilac he had given her, and fancied she could 
almost inhale again its delicious perfume. But the lilac 
flowering-time was over now — and the roses had it all their 
own way, — she had given a rose in exchange for the lilac, and 
— Here she started almost nervously as Lord Roxmouth’s voice 
again fell on her ears. 

“ You are not sparing me any of your attention,” he said — 
“Your mind is engrossed with something — or somebody — else l 
Possibly I have a rival ? ” 

He smiled, but there was a quick hard gleam of suspicion 
in his cold grey eyes. Maryllia gave him a look of supreme 
disdain. 

“ You are insolent,” she said, speaking in very low but 
emphatic tones — “You always were! You presume too much 
on Aunt Emily’s encouragement of your attentions to me, 
which you know are unwelcome. You are perfectly aware 
that I left London to escape a scheme concocted by you and 
her to so compromise me in the view of society, that no choice 
should be left to me save marriage with you. Now you have 
followed me here, and I know why! You have come to try 
and find out what I do with myself — to spy upon my actions 
and occupations, and take back your report to Aunt Emily. 
You are perfectly welcome to enter upon this congenial task! 
You can visit me at my own house, — you can play detective all 
over the place, if you are happy in that particular role. Every 
opportunity shall be given you ! ” 

He bowed. “ Thank you ! ” And stroking his moustache, 
as was his constant habit, he smiled again. “ You are really 
very cruel to me, Maryllia! Why can I never win your con- 
fidence — I will not say your affection ? May I not know ? ” 

“ You may ! ” — she answered coldly — “ It is because there is 
nothing in you to trust and nothing to value. I have told you 
this so often that I wonder you want to be told it again ! And 
though I give you permission to call on me at my own home, 
— just to save you the trouble of telling Aunt Emily that her 
eccentric ’ niece was too * peculiar’ to admit you there, — I 
reserve to myself the right at any moment to shut the door 
against you.” 

She moved from him then, and seeing the Ittlethwaites of 


God’s Good Man 


326 

Ittlethwaite Park, went to speak to them. He stood where 
she had left him, surveying the garden in front of him with 
absolute complacency. Mr. Marius Longford joined him. 

“ Well ? ” said the light of the Savage and Savile tentatively. 

“Well! She is the same ungovernable termagant as ever 
- — conceited little puss! But she always amuses me — that’s 
one consolation ! ” He laughed, and taking out his cigar-case, 
opened it. “Will you have one?” Longford accepted the 
favour. “ Who is this old fellow, Pippitt ? ” he asked — “ Any 
relation of the dead and gone Badsworth? How does he get 
Badsworth Hall? Doesn’t he grind bones to make his bread, 
or something of that kind ? ” 

Longford explained with civil obsequiousness that Sir Mor- 
ton Pippitt had certainly once i ground bones,’ but that he 
had ‘ retired ’ from such active service, while still retaining 
the largest share in the bone business. That he had bought 
Badsworth Hall as it stood, — pictures, books, furniture and all, 
for what was to him a mere trifle; and that he was now 
assuming to himself by lawful purchase, the glory of the whole 
deceased Badsworth family. 

Lord Boxmouth shrugged his shoulders in contempt. 

“ Such will be the fate of Boxmouth Castle ! ” he said — 
“ Some grinder of bones or maker of beer will purchase it, and 
perhaps point out the picture of the founder of the house as 
being that of a former pot-boy ! ” 

“ The old order changeth,” — said Longford, with a chill 
smile — “ And I suppose we should learn to accustom ourselves 
to it. But you, with your position and good looks, should be 
able to prevent any such possibility as you suggest. Miss 
Yancourt is not the only woman in the world.” 

“ By no means,” — and Boxmouth strolled into the garden, 
Longford walking beside him — “ But she is the only y7°man I 
at present know, who, if she obeys her aunt’s wishes, will have 
a fortune of several millions. And just because such a little 
devil should be mastered and must be mastered, I have resolved 
to master her. That’s all ! ” 

“ And, to your mind, sufficient,” — said Longford — “ But if 
it is a question of the millions chiefly, there is always the aunt 
herself. 

Boxmouth stared — then laughed. 

“The aunt!” he ejaculated — “The aunt?” 

“ Why not ? ” And Longford stole a furtive look round at 
the man who was his chief literary patron — “ The aunt is 
handsome, well-preserved, not more than forty-five at most — 


God’s Good Man 


327 


and I should say she is a woman who could be easily led 
- — through vanity.” 

“ The aunt ! ” again murmured Roxmouth — u My dear Long- 
ford ! What an appalling suggestion ! Mrs. Fred as the 
Duchess of Ormistoune ! Forbid it. Heaven ! ” 

Then suddenly he laughed aloud. 

“ By J ove ! It would be too utterly ridiculous ! Whatever 
made you think of such a thing ? ” 

“ Only the prospect you yourself suggested,” — replied Long- 
ford — “ That of seeing a brewer or a bone-melter in possession 
of Roxmouth Castle. Surely even Mrs. Fred would be prefer- 
able to that ! ” 

With an impatient exclamation Roxmouth suddenly changed 
the subject; but Longford was satisfied that he had sown a 
seed, which might, — time and circumstances permitting, — 
sprout and grow into a tangible weed or flower. 

Maryllia meantime had made good her escape from the 
scene of Sir Morton Pippitt’s < afternoon-tea ’ festivity. Gently 
moving through the throng with that consummate grace which 
was her natural heritage, she consented to be introduced to 
the ‘ county ’ generally, smiling sweetly upon all, and talking 
so kindly to the Mandeville Poreham girls, that she threw 
them into fluttering ecstasies of delight, and caused them to 
declare afterwards to their mother that Miss Vancourt was 
the sweetest, dearest, darlingest creature they had ever met! 
She stood with patience while Sir Morton Pippitt, over- 
excited by the presence of the various ‘ titled ’ personages in 
his house, guffawed and blustered in her face over the ‘ little 
surprise ’ he had prepared for her in the unexpected appear- 
ance of Lord Roxmouth; she listened to his “Ha!-ha!-ha! 
My dear lady! We know a thing or two! Handsome fellow, 
— handsome fellow! Think of a poor old plain Knight when 

you are a Duchess ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! God bless my soul ! ” 

and without a word in confirmation or denial of his blatant 
observations, she managed to slip gradually out of the draw- 
ing-room to the hall and from thence to the carriage drive, 
where she found, as she thought she would, Lord Charlemont 
looking tenderly into the mechanism of his motor-car, un- 
screwing this, peering into that, and generally hanging round 
the vehicle with a fatuous lover’s enthusiasm. 

“Would you mind taking me back to St. Rest now?” she 
enquired — “ I have an appointment in the village — you can do 
the journey in no time.” 

u Delighted ! ” And Charlemont got his machine into the 


God’s Good Man 


328 

proper state of spluttering, gasping eagerness to depart. 
“ Anyone coming with you ? ” 

“ No — nobody knows I am leaving.” And Maryllia mounted 
lightly into the car. “ You can return and fetch the others 
afterwards. Put me down at the church, please ! ” 

In a moment more the car flashed down the drive and out 
of Badsworth Hall precincts, and was soon panting and pound- 
ing along the country road at most unlawful speed. As a rule 
Maryllia hated being in a motor-car, but on this occasion she 
was glad of the swift rush through the air; had the vehicle 
torn madly down a precipice she would scarcely have cared, 
so eager was she to get away from the hateful vicinity of Lord 
Roxmouth. She was angry too — angry with Mrs. Bludlip 
Courtenay, whose hand she recognised in the matter as having 
so earnestly begged- her to go to Badsworth Hall that after- 
noon, — she despised Sir Morton Pippitt for lending himself 
to the scheme, — and with all her heart she loathed Mr. Marius 
Longford whom she at once saw was Boxmouth’s paid tool. 
The furious rate at which Lord Charlemont drove his car was 
a positive joy to her — and as he was much too busy with his 
steering gear to speak, she gave herself up to the smouldering 
indignation that burned in her soul while she was, so to speak, 
carried through space as on a panting whirlwind. 

“ Why can they not leave me alone ! ” she thought passion- 
ately — “ How dare they follow me to my own home ! — my 
own lands! — and spy upon me in everything I do! It is a 
positive persecution and more than that, — it is a wicked design 
on Aunt Emily’s part to compromise me with Boxmouth. 
She wants to set people talking down here in the country just 
as she set them talking in town, and to make everyone think 
I am engaged to him, or ought to be engaged to him. It is 
cruel! — I suppose I shall be driven away from here just as 
I have been driven from London, — is there no way in which I 
can escape from this man whom I hate! — no place in the 
world where he cannot find me and follow me ! ” 

The brown hue of thatched roofs through the trees here 
caused Lord Charlemont to turn round and address her. 

“ Just there!” he said, briefly — “Six minutes exactly!” 

“ Good ! ” said Maryllia, nodding approvingly — “ But go 
slowly through the village, won’t you? There are so many 
dear little children always playing about.” 

He slackened speed at once, and with a weird toot-tootling 
of his horn guided the car on at quite a respectable ambling- 
donkey pace. 


God’s Good Man 


3 2 9 


“You said the church ? ” 

"Yes, please!” 

Another minute, and she had alighted. 

“ Thanks so much ! ” she said, smiling up into his goggle- 
guarded eyes. "Will you rush back for the others, please? 
And — and — may I ask you a favour ? ” 

" A thousand ! ” he answered, thinking what a pretty little 
woman she was, as he spoke. 

"Well — don’t — even if they want you to do so, — don’t bring 
Lord Roxmouth or Mr. Marius Longford back to the Manor. 
They are Sir Morton Pippitt’s friends and guests — they are 
not mine ! ” 

A faint flicker of surprise passed over the aristocratic motor- 
driver’s features, but he made no observation. He merely 
said: 

“All right! I’m game!” 

Which brief sentence meant, for Lord Charlemont, that he 
was loyal to the death. He was not romantic in the style 
of expressing himself, — he would not have understood how to 
swear fealty on a drawn sword — but when he said — ‘ I’m 
game,’ — it came to the same thing. Reversing his car, he 
sped away, whizzing up the road like a boomerang, back to 
Badsworth Hall. Maryllia watched him till he was out of 
sight, — then with a sigh of relief, she turned and look wist- 
fully at the church. Its beautiful architecture had the appear- 
ance of worn ivory in the mellow radiance of the late after- 
noon, and the sculptured figures of the Twelve Apostles in 
their delicately carved niches, six on either side of the portal, 
seemed almost life-like, as the rays of the warm and brilliant 
sunshine, tempered by a touch of approaching evening, struck 
them aslant as with a luminance from heaven. She lifted 
the latch of the churchyard gate, — and walking slowly with 
bent head between the rows of little hillocks where, under 
every soft green quilt of grass lay someone sleeping, she en- 
tered the sacred building. It was quite empty. There was 
a scent of myrtle and lilies in the ally — it came from two 
clusters of blossoms which were Set at either side of the gold 
cross on the altar. Stepping softly, and with reverence, 
Maryllia went up to the Communion rails, and looked long 
and earnestly at the white alabaster Sarcophagus which, in its 
unknown origin and antiquity, was the one unsolved mystery 
of St. Rest. A vague sensation of awe stole upon her, — and 
she sank involuntarily on her kT16€S. 


330 God’s Good Man 

“ If I could pray now,” — she thought — “ What should I 
pray for?” 

And then it seemed that something wild and appealing rose 
in her heart and clamoured for an utterance which her tongue 
refused to give, — her bosom heaved, — her lips trembled, — 
and suddenly a rush of tears blinded her eyes. 

“Oh, if I were only loved!” she murmured under her 
breath — “If only someone could find me worth caring for! 
I would endure any suffering, any loss, to win this one price- 
less gif t,— love ! ” 

A little smothered sob broke from her lips. 

“ Father ! Mother ! ” she whispered, instinctively stretch- 
ing out her hands — “ I am so lonely ! — so very, very lonely ! ” 

Only silence answered her, and the dumb perfume of the 
altar flowers. She rose, — and stood a moment trying to con- 
trol herself, — a pretty little pitiful figure in her dainty, gar- 
den-party frock, a soft white chiffon hat tied on under her 
rounded chin with a knot of pale blue ribbon, and a tiny cob- 
web of a lace kerchief in her hanj} with which she dried her 
wet eyes. 

“ Oh dear ! ” she sighed — “ It’s no use crying ! It only 
shows what a weak little idiot I am! I’m lonely, of course, 
• — I can’t expect anything else; I shall always be lonely — 
Roxmouth and Aunt Emily will take care of that. The lies 
they will tell about me will keep off every man but the one 
mean and slanderous fortune-hunter, to whom lies are second 
nature. And as I won’t marry him, I shall be left to myself 
— I shall be an old maid. Though that doesn’t matter — old 
maids are often the happiest women. Anyhow, I’d rather be 
an old maid than Duchess of Ormistoune.” 

She dabbed her eyes with the little handkerchief again, 
and went slowly out of the church. And as she stepped from 
the shadow of its portal into the sunshiny open air, she came 
face to face with John Walden. He started back at the sud- 
den sight of her, — then recollecting himself, raised his hat, 
looking at her with questioning eyes. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walden!” she said, affecting a 
sprightly air — “ Are you quite well ? ” 

He 6miled. 

“Quite. And you? You look ” 

“ As if I had been crying, I suppose ? ”-—ehe suggested. 
“ So I have. Women often cry.” 

“ They do,— but ” 

“But why should they? — you would say, being a man,”—* 


God’s Good Man 


33i 

and Maryllia forced a laugh — “And that’s a question difficult 
to answer ! Are you going into the church ? ” 

“ Not for a service, or on any urgent matter,” — replied 
John — “ I left a book in the vestry which I want to refer to, — 
that’s all.” 

“ Fetch it,” said Maryllia — “ I’ll wait for you here.” 

He glanced at her — and saw that her lips trembled, and that 
she was still on the verge of tears. He hurried off at once, 
realising that she wanted a minute or two to recover herself. 
His heart beat foolishly fast and uncomfortably, — he won- 
dered what had grieved or annoyed her. 

“ Poor little soul ! ” he murmured, reflecting on a conversa- 
tion with which Julian Adderley had regaled him the previous 
day, concerning some of the guests at Abbot’s Manor — “ Poor, 
weary, sweet little soul ! ” 

While Maryllia, during his brief absence was thinking — “I 
won’t cry, or he’ll take me for a worse fool than I am. He 
looks so terribly intellectual — so wise and cool and calm! — - 
and yet I think — I think he was rather pleased to see me ! ” 

She smoothed her face into a smile, — gave one or two more 
reproving taps to her eyelids with her morsel of a kerchief, 
and was quite self-possessed when he returned, with a worn 
copy of the Iliad under his arm. 

“ Is that the book you wanted ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes — ” and he showed it to her — “ I admit it had no 
business to be left in the church.” I 

She peeped between the covers. 

“ Oh, it’s all Greek ! ” — she said — “ Do you read Greek ? ” 

“ It is one of the happiest accomplishments I learned at 
college,” — he replied. “ I have eased many a heartache by 
reading Homer in the original.” 

She looked meditative. 

“Now that’s very strange!” she murmured — “I should 
never have thought that to read Homer in the original Greek 
would ease a heartache! How does it do it? Will you teach 
me? ” 

She raised her eyes — how beautiful and blue they were he 
thought! — more beautiful for the mist of weeping that still 
lingered about their soft radiance. 

“I will teach you Greek, if you like, with pleasure!” — he 
said, smiling a little, though his lips trembled — “But whether 
it would cure any heartache of yours I could not promise ! ” 

“ Still, if it cures your heartaches ? ” she persisted. 

“Mine are of a different character, I think!” — and the 


332 


God’s Good Man 


emile in his eyes deepened, as he looked down at her wistfully 
upturned face, — “ I am getting old, — you are still young. 
That makes all the difference. My aches can be soothed by 
philosophy, — yours could only be charmed away by ” 

He broke off abruptly. The hot blood rose to his temples, 
and retreated again, leaving him very pale. 

She looked at him earnestly. 

“ Well!— by what?” 

“ I imagine you know, Miss V ancourt ! There is only one 
thing that can ease the burden of life for a woman, and that 
is — love ! ” 

She nodded her fair head sagaciously. 

“Of course! But that is just what I shall never have, — 
so it’s no use wanting it. I had better learn to read Greek 
at once, without delay ! When shall I come for my first 
lesson ? ” 

She laughed unforcedly now, as she looked up at him. They 
were walking side by side out of the churchyard. 

“You are ‘much too busy to learn Greek,” he said, laugh- 
ing with her. “Your London friends claim all your time, — 
much to the regret of our little village.” 

“ Ah ! — but they won’t be with me very long now,” — she 
rejoined — “ They’ll all go after the dinner next week, except 
Louis Gigue. Gigue is coming for a day or two and he will 
perhaps stay on a bit to give lessons to Cicely. But he’s not 
a society man. Oh, dear no! Quite the contrary — he’s a 
perfect savage! — and says the most awful things! Poor old 
Gigue ! ” 

She laughed again, and looked happier and brighter than 
she had done for days. 

“You have rather spoilt the villagers,” went on Walden, 
as he opened the churchyard gate for her to pass out, and 
closed it again behind them both. “ They’ve got accustomed 
to seeing you look in upon them at all hours, — and, of course, 
they miss you. Little Ipsie Frost especially frets after you.” 

“ I’ll go and see her very, very soon,” said Maryllia, im- 
pulsively ; “ Dear little thing ! When you see her next, tell 
her I’m coming, won’t you ? ” 

“I will,” he rejoined, — then paused, looking at her earnest- 
ly. “ Your friends must find St. Rest a very old-fashioned, 
world-forgotten sort of place,” — he continued — “ And you 
must, equally, find it difficult to amuse them ? ” 

“Well, perhaps, just a little,” she admitted “The fact 

is but tell it not in Gath — I was happier without them! 


God’s Good Man 


333 


They bare me to death! All the same they really mean to be 
very nice, — they don’t care, of course, for the things I care 

about, trees and flowers and books and music, — but then I 

am always such an impossible person ! ” 

“ Are you ? ” His eyes were full of gentleness as he put 
this question — “ I should not have thought that ! ” 

She coloured a little — then changed the subject. 

“ You have seen Lady Beaulyon, haven’t you ? ” He bent 
his head in the affirmative — “ Isn’t she lovely ? ” 

“ Not to me,” he replied, quietly — “ But then I’m no 
judge.” 

She looked at him in surprise. 

“ She is considered the most beautiful woman in England ! ” 
“ By whom ? ” he enquired ; — “ By the society paragraph- 
ists who are paid for their compliments ? ” 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ Oh, I don’t know anything about that ! ” she said — “ I 
never met a paragraphist in my life that I know of. But 
Eva is beautiful — there is no denying it. And Margaret 
Bludlip Courtenay is called the youngest woman in the 
world!” 

“She looks it!” answered Walden, with great heartiness. 
“I cannot imagine Time making any sort of mark upon her. 
Because — if you don’t mind my saying so — she has really 
nothing for Time to write upon! ” 

His tone was eminently good-natured, and Maryllia glanc- 
ing at his smiling face laughed gaily. 

“You are very wicked, Mr. Walden,” she said mirthfully — 
“ In fact, you are a quiz, and you shouldn’t be a quiz and a 
clergyman both together. Oh, by the way! Why did you 
stop reading the service when we all came in late to church 
that Sunday ? ” 

He looked full at her. 

“ Precisely for that reason. Because you all came in late.” 
Maryllia peered timorously at him, with her pretty head 
on one side, like an enquiring bird. 

“ Do you think it was polite ? ” 

Walden laughed. 

“ I was not studying politeness just then,” — he answered — 
“ I was exercising my own authority.” 

“ Oh ! ” She paused. “ Lady Beaulyon and the others did 
not like it at all. They thought you were trying to make ua 
ashamed of ourselves.” 

“ They were right,” — he said, cheerfully — “ I was ! ” 


334 God’s Good Man 

“ Well, — you succeeded, — in a way. But I was very 
angry ! ” 

He smiled. 

“Were you, really? How dreadful! But you got over it?” 

“Yes,” — she said, meditatively — “I got over it. I suppose 
you were right, — and of course we were wrong. But aren’t 
you a very arbitrary person ? ” 

His eyes sparkled mirthfully. 

“ I believe I am. But I never ask anyone to attend 
church, — everyone in the parish is free to do as they like about 
that. Only if people do come, I expect them to be punc- 
tual, — that’s all.” 

“ I see ! And if they’re not, you make them feel very small 
and cheap about it. People don’t like being made small and 
cheap , — I don’t, for instance. Now good-bye! You are com- 
ing to dine next week, remember ! ” 

“I remember!” he rejoined, as he raised his hat in fare- 
well. “ And do you think you will learn Greek ? ” 

“I am sure I will! — as soon as ever all these people are 
gone. The week after next I shall be quite free again.” 

“And happy?” 

She hesitated. 

“Not quite, perhaps, but as happy as I ever can be! Good- 
bye ! ” 

She held out her hand. He pressed it gently, and let her 
go, watching her as she moved along the road holding up her 
dainty skirt from the dust, and walking with the ease and 
graceful carriage which was, to her, second nature. Then he 
went into his own garden with the Iliad, and addressing his 
ever attentive and complaisant dog, said: 

“Look here, Nebbie — we mustn’t think about her! She’s 
a bewildering little person, with a good deal of the witch 
glamour in her eyes and smile, — and it’s quite absurd for such 
staid and humdrum creatures as you and I, Nebbie, to imagine 
that we can ever be of the slightest service to her, or to dream 
that she ever gives us a single thought when she has once 
turned her back upon us. But it is a pity she should cry 
about anything! — her eyes were not made for tears — her life 
was not created for sorrow! It should be all sunshine and 
roses for her — French damask roses, of course! ” and he smiled 
- — “with their hearts full of perfume and their petals full of 
colour! As for me, there should only be the grey of her plots 
of lavender, — lavender that is dried and put away in a drawer. 


God’s Good Man 335 

and more often than not helps to give fragrance to the poor 
corpse ready for burial ! ”■ 

-He sighed, and opened his Homer. Greek, for once, failed 
to ease his heartache, and the Iliad seemed singularly over- 
strained and deadly dull. 


XXI 


rpHAT evening before joining her guests at the usual eight 
A o’clock repast, Maryllia told Cicely Bourne of the dis- 
agreeable 4 surprise ’ which had been treacherously contrived 
for her at Sir Morton Pippitt’s tea-party by the unexpected 
presence of the loathed wooer whom she sought to avoid. 

44 Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must certainly have known 
he was to be there,” — she said — “And I think, from her look, 
Eva Beaulyon knew also. But neither of them gave me a 
hint. And now if I were to say anything they would only 
laugh and declare that they 4 thought it would be fun/ 
There’s no getting any help or sympathy out of such people. 
I’m sorry! — but — as usual — I must stand alone.” 

“ I daresay every one of them was in the plot — men and all, 
if the truth were told ! ” — burst out Cicely, indignantly — 
“And Mrs. Fred is at the bottom of the mischief. It’s a 
shame! Your aunt is a brute, Maryllia! I would say so to 
her face if she were here! She’s a calculating, selfish, title- 
grubbing brute ! There ! What are you going to do ? ” 

“Nothing!” — and Maryllia looked thoughtfully out of the 
window at the flaming after-glow of the sunset, bathing all 
the landscape in a flood of coppery crimson — 44 I shall just go 
on as usual. When I go down to dinner presently, I shall not 
speak of to-day’s incident at all. Eva Beaulyon and Margaret 
Courtenay will expect me to speak of it — and they will be 
disappointed. If they allude to it, I shall change the subject. 
And I shall invite Roxmouth and his tame pussy, Mr. Marius 
Longford, to dinner neixt week, as guests of Sir Morton Pip- 
pitt, — that’s all.” 

Cicely opened her big dark eyes. 

“You will actually invite Roxmouth?” 

44 Of course I will — of course I must. I want everyone here 
to see and understand how absolutely indifferent I am to 
him.” 

44 They will never see — they will never understand ! ” said 
Cicely, shaking her mop of wild hair decisively — “ My dear 
Maryllia, the colder you are to 4 ce cher Roxmouth’ the more 
the world will talk! They will say you are merely acting & 

336 


God’s Good Man 


d37 

part. No woman in her senses, they will swear, would dis- 
courage the attentions of a prospective Duke.” 

“ They may say what they like, — they may report me out 
of my senses if they choose ! ” declared Maryllia, hotly — “ I 
am not a citizeness of the great American Republic that I 
should sell myself for a title! I have suffered quite enough 
at the hands of this society sneak, Roxmouth — and I don’t 
intend to suffer any more. His methods are intolerable. 
There is not a city on the Continent where he has not paid 
the press to put paragraphs announcing my engagement to 
him — and he has done the same thing with every payable 
paper in London. Aunt Emily has assisted him in this, — she 
has even written some of the announcements herself, sending 
them to the papers with my portrait and his, for publication! 
And because this constantly rumoured and expected marriage 
does not come off, and because people ask why it doesn’t come 
off, the pair of conspirators are reduced to telling lies about 
me ! I almost wish I could get small-pox or some other 
hideous ailment and become disfigured, — then Roxmouth 
might leave me alone! Perhaps Providence will arrange it in 
that way.” 

Cicely uttered an exclamation of horror. 

“ Oh, don’t say such a thing, Maryllia ! It’s too dreadful ! 
You are the prettiest, sweetest creature I ever saw, and I 
wouldn’t have a scar or a blemish on your dear face for a 
million Roxmouths! Have patience! We’ll get rid of him!” 

Maryllia gave a hopeless gesture. 

“ How?” 

“Well, I don’t quite know!” and Cicely knitted her black 
brows perplexedly — “ But don’t worry, Maryllia ! I believe 
it will all come right. Something will happen to make short 
work of him, — I’m sure of it ! ” 

“ You are an optimist,” — said Maryllia, kissing her — “ and 
you’re very young! I have learned that in this best of all 
possible worlds, human nature is often the worst part of all 
creation, and that when you want to avoid a particularly ob- 
jectionable human being, that being is always round the 
corner. However, if I cannot get rid of Roxmouth, I shall do 
something desperate ! I shall disappear ! ” 

“Where to?” asked Cicely, startled. 

“I don’t know. Nowhere that you cannot find me!” 

She laughed, — she had recovered her natural buoyancy and 
light-heartedness, and when she joined her party at dinner 
that evening, she showed no traces of annoyance or fatigue. 


God’s Good Man 


338 

She made no allusion to Lord Roxmouth’s appearance at Sir 
Morton Pippitt’s, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, glancing at 
her somewhat timorously, judged it best to avoid the subject. 
Por she knew she had played a mean trick on the friend 
whose guest she was, — she knew she had in her pocket a 
private letter from Mrs. Fred Vancourt, telling her of Lord 
Roxmouth’s arrival at Badsworth HaLl, and urging her to 
persuade Maryllia to go there, and to bring about meetings 
between the two as frequently as possible, — and as she now 
and then met the straight flash of her hostess’s honest blue 
eyes, she felt the hot colour rising to her face underneath all 
her rouge, and for once in her placid daily life of body-massage 
and self-admiration, she felt discomposed and embarrassed. 
The men talked the incident of the day over among themselves 
when they were left to their coffee and cigars, and discussed 
the probabilities and non-probabilities of Miss Vancourt be- 
coming the Duchess of Ormistoune, with considerable zest. 

“ She’ll never have him — she hates him like poison ! ” — 
declared Lord Charlemont. 

“ Hot surprised at that,” — said another man — “ if she 
knows anything about him ! ” 

“ He has gone the pace ! ” murmured Mr. Bludlip Courtenay 
thoughtfully, dropping his monocle out of his eye and hastily 
putting it back, as though he feared his eye itself might escape 
from its socket unless thus fenced in — “ But then, after all — 
wild oats! Once sown and reaped, they seldom spring again 
after marriage.” 

“I think you’re wrong there!” said Charlemont — “Wild 
oats are a singularly perpetual crop. In many cases marriage 
seems to give them a fresh start.” 

“Will there be a good harvest when you marry, Charly?” 
asked one of the company, with a laugh. 

“ Oh, I shouldn’t wonder ! ” he returned, good-naturedly — 
“ I’m just as big a fool as any other man. But I always do 
my best not to play down on a woman.” 

“ Woman ” — said Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, sententiously — ■ 
“ is a riddle. Sometimes she wants a vote in elections, — 
then, if it’s offered to her, she won’t have it. Buy her a pearl, 
and she says she would rather have had a ruby. Give her a 
park phaeton, and she declares she has been dying for a closed 
brougham. Offer her a five-hundred-guinea pair of cobs, and 
she will burst into tears and say she would have liked a ‘ little 
pug-dog — a dear, darling, little Japanese pug-dog’ — she has 


God’s Good Man 


339 

no use for cobs. And to carry the simile further, give her a 
husband, and she straightway wants a lover.” 

“ That implies that a husband ceases to be a lover,” — said 
Charlemont. 

“ Well, I guess a husband can’t be doing Borneo and i oh 
moon’-ing till he’s senile,” observed a cadaverous looking man, 
opposite, who originally hailed from the States, but who, 
having purchased an estate in England, now patriotically 
sought to forget that he was ever an American. 

They laughed. 

“ ‘ Oh moon’-ing is a good expression,” — said Lord Charle-* ' 
mont — “ very good ! ” 

“ It’s mine, sir — but you’re welcome to it,” — rejoined the 
Anglicised renegade of the Stars and Stripes, — “ To ‘ oh 
moon ’ is a verb every woman likes to have conjugated by 
a male fool once at least in her life.” 

“ Yes — and if you don’t ‘ oh m-moon ’ with her,” — 
lisped a young fellow at the other end of the table — “ She 
considers you a b-b-brute ! ” 

Again the laugh went round. 

“ Well, I don’t think Roxmouth will have a chance to go 
‘ oh moon’-ing with our hostess,” — said Charlemont — “ The 
whole idea of her marriage with him has been faked up by 
Mrs. Fred. The girl herself, — Miss Vancourt, — doesn’t want 
him, and won’t have him.” 

“Will you take a bet on it?” asked Mr. Bludlip Courtenay. 

“Yes, if you like!” and Charlemont laughed — “I don’t bet 
much, but I’ll bet anything you choose to name on that. 
Maryllia Vancourt will never, unless she is bound, gagged and 
drugged into it, become Duchess of Ormistoune.” 

“ Shall we say a tenner ? ” suggested Courtenay, writing 
the bet down in his notebook. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Good ! I take the other side. I know something of Rox- 
mouth, — he’s seldom baffled. Miss Vancourt will be the 
Duchess before next year ! ” 

“Not a bit of it! Next year Miss Vancourt will still be 
Miss Vanoourt!” said Charlemont, emphatically — “She’s a 
woman of character, and if she doesn’t intend to marry Rox- 
mouth, nothing will make her. She’s got a mind of her own, 
— most women’s minds are the minds of their favourite men.” 

“ He-he-te-he — te-he — he ! ” giggled the young man who 
had before spoken, — “ I know a girl ” 

“Shut up, old chappie! You 4 know a bank whereon the 


340 


God’s Good Man 


wild thyme grows * — that’s what you know ! ” said Charlemont. 
“ Come and have a look at the motor.” 

Whereupon they rose from the table and dispersed. 

From that day, however, a certain additional interest was 
given to the house-party entertainment at Abbot’s Manor. 
Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon fell so neatly into 
the web which Maryllia carefully prepared for them, that she 
soon found out what a watch they kept upon her, and knew, 
without further trouble, that she must from henceforth regard 
them as spies in her aunt and Lord Roxmouth’s service. The 
men took no part in this detective business, but nevertheless 
were keenly inquisitive in their own line, more bets being 
given and taken freely on what was likely to be the upshot 
of affairs. Meanwhile, Lord Boxmouth and Mr. Longford, 
sometimes accompanied by Sir Morton Pippitt, and sometimes 
without him, called often, but Maryllia was always out. She 
had two watch-dogs besides her canine friend, Plato, — and 
these were Cicely and Julian Adderley. Cicely had pressed 
the ‘ moon calf ’ into her service, and had told him just as 
much as she thought proper concerning Boxmouth and his 
persecution of her friend and patroness. 

“ Go as often as you can to Badsworth Hall,” — she com- 
manded him — “ and find out all their movements there. Then 
tell me , — and whenever Boxmouth comes here to call, Maryl- 
lia will be out ! Be vigilant and faithful ! ” 

And she had shaken her finger at him and rolled her dark 
eyes with such tragic intensity, that he had entered zealously 
into the spirit of the little social drama, and had become as 
it were special reporter of the Boxmouth policy to the opposing 
party. 

But this was behind the scenes. The visible action of the 
piece appeared just now to be entirely with Maryllia and her 
lordly wooer, — she as heroine, he as hero,— while the ‘ supers/ 
useful in their way as spies, messengers and general attendants, 
took their parts in the various scenes with considerable 
vivacity, wondering how much they might possibly get out 
of it for themselves. If, while they were guests at Abbot’s 
Manor, an engagement between Lord Boxmouth and Maryllia 
Yancourt could be finally settled, they felt they could all 
claim a share in having urged the matter on, and ‘ worked’ it. 
And it was likely that in such a case, Mrs. Fred Yancourt, 
with millions at her disposal, would be helpful to them in 
their turn, should they ever desire it. Altogether, it seemed 
a game worth playing. None of them felt any regret that 
Maryllia should be made the pivot round which to work their 


God’s Good Man 


341 


own schemes of self-aggrandisement. Besides, no worldly 
wise society man or woman could be expected to feel sorry for 
assisting a young woman to attain the position of a Duchess. 
Such an idea would be too manifestly absurd. 

“It will soon be over now,” — said Cicely, consolingly, one 
afternoon in the last week of Maryllia’s entertaining — “ And 
oh, how glad we shall be when everybody has gone ! ” 

“ There’s one person who won’t go, I’m afraid ! ” said 
Maryllia. 

“Roxmouth? Well, even he can’t stay at Badsworth Hall 
for ever ! ” 

“No, — but he can stay as long as he likes, — long enough to 
work mischief. Sir Morton Pippitt won’t send him away, — 
we may be sure of that ! ” 

“If he doesn’t go, I suppose we must?” queried Cicely 
tentatively. 

Maryllia’s eyes grew sad and wistful. 

“ I’m afraid so — I don’t know — we shall see ! ” — she replied 
slowly — “ Something will have to be settled one way or an- 
other — pleasantly or unpleasantly.” 

Cicely’s black brows almost met across her nose in a medi- 
tative frown. 

“ What a shame it is that you can’t be left in peace, Maryl- 
lia ! ” — she exclaimed — “ And all because of your aunt’s hor- 
rible money ! Why doesn’t Roxmouth marry Mrs. Fred ? ” 

“ I wish he would ! ” said Maryllia, heartily, and then she 
began to laugh. “ Then it would be a case of 1 Oh my pro- 
phetic soul ! mine uncle ! ’ And I should be able to say : ‘ My 
aunt is a Duchess.’ Imagine the pride and glory of it ! ” 

Cicely joined in her laughter. 

“ It would be funny ! ” she said — “ But whatever happens, I 
do hope Roxmouth isn’t going to drive us away from the 
Manor this summer. You won’t let him, will you?” 

Maryllia hesitated a moment. 

“ It will depend on circumstances,” she said, at last — “ If 
he persists in staying at Badsworth, I must leave the neigh- 
bourhood. There’s no help for it. It would only be for a 
short time, of course — and it seems hard, when I have only 
just come home, as it were, — but there, — never mind, Cicely! 
We’ll treat it as a game of hare and hounds, — and we’ll baffle 
the hounds somehow ! ” 

Cicely gave a comic gesture of resignation to the inevitable. 

“ Anyhow, if we want a man to help us,” — she said, — 
“ There’s Gigue. Fortunately he’s here now.” 


342 


God's Good Man 


Gigue was there — very certainly there, and all there. Louis 
Gigue, renowned throughout the world for his culture of the 
human voice divine, had arrived the previous day direct from 
Paris, and had exploded into the Manor as though he were 
a human bombshell. He had entered at the hour of afternoon 
tea, wild-eyed, wild-haired, travel-soiled, untidy and eminently 
good-natured, and had taken everybody by surprise. He had 
rushed up to Maryllia, and seizing her hand had kissed it 
rapturously, — he had caught Cicely in his arms and embraced 
her enthusiastically with a ‘Ion enfant prodigue!’ and, 
tossing his grizzled locks from off his broad forehead, he had 
seated himself, sans ceremonie, amidst the company, as though 
he had known everyone present all his life. 

“ Mon Dieu, ze mal der mer ! ” he had exclaimed — “ Ze 
bouleversement of ze vagues! Ze choses terribles! Ze femmes 
sick!— zen men of ze coleur blieu! Ah, quel ravissement to 
be in ze land ! ” 

Gigue’s English was his own particular dialect — he dis- 
dained to try and read a single word of it, but from various 
sources he had picked up words which he fitted into his speech 
as best it suited him, with a result which was sometimes 
effective but more often startling. Maryllia was well accus- 
tomed to it, and understood what she called ‘ Gigue’s ver- 
nacular’ — but the ladies and gentlemen of her house-party 
were not so well instructed, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, 
whose knowledge of the French language was really quite 
extraordinary, immediately essayed the famous singing-master 
in his own tongue. 

“ Esker vous avez un moovais passage, Mo’sieur ? ” she de- 
manded, with placid self-assurance — “ Le mer etait bien mal ? ” 

Gigue laughed, showing a row of very white strong teeth 
under his grizzled moustache, as he accepted a cup of tea 
from Cicely’s hand, who gave him a meaning blink of her 
dark eyes as she demurely waited upon him. 

“ Ah, Madame ! J e parle ze Inglis seulement in ze Eng- 
land! Oui, oui! Je mer etait comme l’huile, mais avec un 
so-so ! ” And he swayed his hands to and fro with a rocking 
movement — “Et le so-so faisaient les dames — ah, ciel! — 
so-so ! ” 

And he placed his hand delicately to his head, with an 
inimitable turning aside gesture that caused a ripple of laugh- 
ter. Maryllia’s eyes sparkled with fun. She saw Mrs. Blud- 
lip Courtenay supeying Gigue through her lorgnon with an 
air of polite criticism amounting to disdain, — she noted the 


God’s Good Man 


343 


men hanging back a little in the way that well-born Britishers 
do hang back from a foreigner who is ‘ only ’ a teacher of 
singing, especially if they cannot speak his language, — and 
she began to enjoy herself. She knew that Gigue would say 
what he thought or what he wanted to say, reckless of censure, 
and she felt the refreshment and relief of having one, at 
least, in the group of persons around her, who was not in her 
Aunt Emily’s service, and who uttered frankly his opinions 
regardless of results. 

“ Et maintenant,” — said Gigue, taking hold of Cicely’s arm 
and drawing her close up to his knee — “ Comment chante le 
rossignol? Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do! Chantez!” 

All the members of the house-party stared, — they had taken 
scarcely any notice of Cicely Bourne, looking upon her as 
more or less beneath their notice — as a ‘ child picked up in 
Paris’ — a ‘waif and stray’ — a ‘fad of Maryllia VancourtV 
— and now here was this wild grey-haired man of renown 
bringing her into sudden prominent notice. 

“ Chantez ! ” reiterated Gigue, furrowing his brows into a 
commanding frown — “ Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do ! ” 

Cicely’s dark eyes flashed — and her lips parted. 

“ Do — re — mi — sol ” 

Bound and full and clear rang the notes, pure as a crystal 
bell, — and the listeners held their breath, as she made such 
music of the common scale as only a divinely-gifted singer 
can. 

“ Bien ! — tres-bien ! ” said Gigue, approvingly, with a smile 
round at the company — “ Mademoiselle Cicely commence a 
chanter! Ze petite sera une grande cantatrice! N’est-ce- 
pas ? ” 

A stiffly civil wonderment seemed frozen on the faces of 
Lady Beaulyon and the others present. Wholly lacking in 
enthusiasm for any art, they almost resented the manner in 
w T hich Cicely was thus brought forward as a kind of genius, 
a being superior to them all. Gigue sniffed the air, as though 
he inhaled offence in it. Then he shook his finger with a 
kind of defiance. 

“ Mais — pas en Angleterre ! ” he said — ■“ Ze petite va com- 
mencer a Milan — St. Petersburg — Vienna! Zen, ze Inglis vill 
say — ‘Ha ha! Zis prima donna chante pour les Frangais, 
les Italiens, les Russes ! — il faut qu’elle chante pour nous ! ’ 
Zen — zey vill pay ze guinea — ces commes des moutons! Zey 
follow les autres pays — zey know nosing of ze art demselves ! ” 

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay coughed delicately. 


344 


God’s Good Man 


“ Music is so very much overdone in England ” — she said, 
languidly — “ One gets so tired of it ! Concerts are quite 
endless during the season, and singers are always pestering 
you to take tickets. It’s quite too much for anyone who is 
not a millionaire.” 

Gigue did not catch this flow of speech — but Cicely heard it. 

“ Well, I shall never ask anyone to i take tickets ’ to hear 
me ! ” she said, laughing. “ A famous prima donna never does 
that kind of thing ! ” 

“ How do you know you will be famous ? ” asked Lady 
Beaulyon, amused. 

“ Instinct!” replied Cicely, gaily — “Just as the bird knows 
it will be able to make a nest, so do I know I shall be famous ! 
Don’t let us talk any more about singing! Come and see the 
garden, Gigue! — I’ll take you round it — and I want a chat 
with you.” 

The two went ofl together, much to the relief of the rest 
of the party. 

“ What an extraordinary-looking creature ! ” said Mrs. 
Bludlip Courtenay — “ Is he quite a gentleman, Maryllia ? ” 

Maryllia smiled. 

“ He is a gentleman according to my standard,” she said. 
“ He is honest, true to his friends, and faithful to his work. I 
ask nothing more of any man. ” 

She changed the subject of conversation, — and Mrs. Bludlip 
Courtenay, in the privacy of her own apartment, confided to 
her husband that she really thought Maryllia Vancourt was a 
little ‘ ofl her head ’ — just a little. 

“ Because, really,” — said Mrs. Courtenay — ■“ when it comes 
to harbouring geniuses in one’s own house, it is quite beyond 
all reason. I sympathise so much with poor Mrs. Fred! If 
Maryllia would only marry Lord Roxmouth, all these flighty 
and fantastic notions of hers about music and faithful friends 
and honour and principle would disappear. I am sure they 
would ! — and she would calm down and be just like one of us.” 

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay stared hard through his monocle. 

“Why don’t you talk to her about it?” he said — “You 
might do more for Roxmouth than you are doing, Peggy! I 
may tell you it would mean good times for both of us if you 
pushed that affair on ! ” 

Mrs. Courtenay looked meditative. 

“ I’ll try ! ” — she said, at last — “ Roxmouth is to dine here 
to-morrow night — I’ll say something before he comes.” 

And she did. She took an opportunity of finding Maryllia 


God’s Good Man 


345 


alone in her morning-room, where she was busy answering 
some letters. Gliding in, without apology, she sank into the 
nearest comfortable chair. 

“We shall soon all be gone from this dear darling old 
house ! ” she said, with a sigh — “ When are you coming back 
to London, Maryllia ? ” 

“ Never, I hope,” — Maryllia answered — “ I am tired of Lon- 
don, — and if I go anywhere away from here for a change it 
will be abroad — ever so far distant ! 99 

“With Lord Roxmouth?” suggested Mrs. Courtenay, with 
a subtle blink in her eyes. 

Maryllia laid down the pen she held, and looked straight at 
her. 

“ I think you are perfectly aware that I shall never go 
anywhere with Lord Roxmouth,” — she said — “ Please save 
yourself the trouble of discussing this subject! I know how 
anxious you are upon the point — Aunt Emily has, of course, 
asked you to use your influence to persuade me into this 
detestable marriage — now do understand me, once and for all, 
that it’s no use. I would rather kill myself than be Lord 
Roxmouth’s wife ! ” 

“ But why — ” began Mrs. Courtenay, feebly. 

“ Why ? Because I know what kind of a man he is, and 
how hypocritically he conceals his unnameable vices under a 
cloak of respectability. I can tolerate anything but humbug, 
• — remember that ! ’ 

Mrs. Courtenay winced, but stuck to her guns. 

“ I’m sure he’s no worse than other men ! ” — she said — • 
“ And he’s perfectly devoted to you ! It would be much better 
to be Duchess of Ormistoune, than a poor lonely old maid 
looking after geniuses. Geniuses are perfectly horrible per- 
sons! I’ve had experience with them. Why, I tried to bring 
out a violinist once — such a dirty young man, and he smelt 
terribly of garlic — he came from the Pyrenees — but he was 
quite a marvellous fiddler — and he turned out most ungrate- 
fully, and married my manicurist. Simply shocking! And 
as for singers! — my dear Maryllia, you never seem to realise 
what an utter little fright that Cicely Bourne of yours is! 
Bhe will never get on with a yellow face like that! And such 
a figure ! ” 

Maryllia laughed. 

“ Well, she’s only fourteen ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” declared Mrs. Courtenay — “ She tells you that 
-^but she’s twenty, if she’s a day! She’s ‘doing’ you, all 


God’s Good Man 


346 

round, and so is that artful old creature Gigue! Taking your 
money all for nothing! — you may be sure the two of them 
are in a perfect conspiracy to rob you! I can’t imagine why 
you should go out of your way to pick up such people — really 
I can’t — when you might marry into one of the best positions 
in England ! ” 

Maryllia was silent. After a pause, she said gently: 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me? Fm rather 
pressed for time, — I have one or two letters to write ” 

“ Oh, I see you want to get rid of me,” and Mrs. Courte- 
nay rose from her chair with a bounce — “ You have become so 
rude lately, Maryllia, — you really have! Your aunt is quite 
right! But I’m glad you have asked Roxmouth to dine to- 
night — that is at least one step in the right direction! I’m 
sure if you will let him say a few words to you alone ” 

Maryllia lifted her eyes. 

“ I have already asked you to drop this subject,” she said. 

“Well! — if you persist in your obstinacy, you can only 
blame yourself for losing a good chance,” — said Mrs. Courte- 
nay, with real irritation — “You won’t see it, of course, but 
you’re getting very passee, Maryllia — and it’s only an old 
friend of your aunt’s like myself that can tell you so. I have 
noticed several wrinkles round your eyes — you should massage 
with some ‘ creme ivoire ’ and tap those lines — you really 

should — tap on to them so ” and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay 

illustrated her instructions delicately on her own pink-and- 
white dolly face with her finger-tips — “ I spend quite an hour 
every day tapping every line away round my eyes — but you’ve 
really got more than I have ” 

“ I’m not so young as you are, perhaps ! ” said Maryllia, 
with a little smile — “ But I don’t care a bit how I look ! If 
I’m getting old, so is everyone — it’s no crime. If we live, we 
must also die. People who sneer at age are likely to be 
sneered at themselves when their time comes. And if I’m 
growing wrinkles, I’d rather have country ones than town 
ones. See ? ” 

“ Dear me, what odd things you do say ! ” and Mrs. Bludlip 
Courtenay shook out her skirts and glanced over her shoulder 
at her own reflection in a convenient mirror — “ You seem to 
be quite impossible at times ” 

“ Yes, — Aunt Emily always said so ! ” — interposed Maryllia, 
quietly. 

“ And yet think of the advantages you have had ! — the 
education — the long course of travel ! — you should really 


God’s Good Man 


347 


know the world by this time better than you do ! ” — went on 
the irrepressible lady — “ You should surely be able to see that 
there is nothing so good for a woman as a good marriage. 
Everything in a girl’s life points to that end — she is trained 
for it, dressed for it, brought up to it — and yet here you are 
with a most brilliant position waiting for you to step into it, 
and you turn your back upon it with contempt ! What do you 
imagine you can do with yourself down here all alone? There 
are no people of your own class residing nearer to you than 
three or four miles distant — the village is composed of vulgar 
rustics — the rural town is inhabited only by tradespeople, and 
though one of your near neighbours is Sir Morton Pippitt, 
one would hardly call him a real gentleman — so there’s really 
nobody at all for you to associate with. Now is there ? ” 
Maryllia glanced up, her eyes sparkling. 

“You forget the parson!” she said. 

“Oh, the parson!” And Mrs. Courtenay tittered. “Well, 
you’re the last woman in the world to associate with a parson! 
You’re not a bit religious ! ” 

“No,” said Maryllia — “I’m afraid I’m not!” 

“ And you couldn’t do district visiting and soup kitchens 
and mothers’ meetings ” — put in Mrs. Courtenay — “ It would 
be too sordid and dull for words. In fact, you wil simply die 
of ennui down here when the summer is over. Now, if you 
married Roxmouth ” 

“ There would be a gall-moon, instead of a honey one,” 
said Maryllia, calmly, — “ But there won’t be either. I must 
finish my letters ! Do you mind leaving me to myself ? ” 

Mrs. Courtenay tossed her head, bit her lip, and rustled out 
of the room in a huff. She reported her ill-success with 
* Maryllia Van’ to her husband, who, in his turn, reported it 
to Lord Roxmouth, who straightway conveyed these and all 
other items of the progress or retrogression of his wooing to 
Mrs. Fred Vancourt. That lady, however, felt so perfectly 
confident that Roxmouth would, — with the romantic surround- 
ings of the Manor, and the exceptional opportunities afforded 
by long afternoons and moonlit evenings, — succeed where he 
had hitherto failed, that she ahnost selected Maryllia’s bridal 
gown, and went so far as to study the most elaborate designs 
for wedding-cakes of a millionaire description. 

“For,” — said she, with comfortable self-assurance — “St. 
Rest, as I remember it, is just the dullest place I ever heard 
of, except heaven! There are no men in it except dreadful 
hunting, drinking provincial creatures who ride or play golf 


348 


God’s Good Man 


all day, and go to sleep after dinner. That kind of thing will 
never suit Maryllia. She will contrast Roxmouth with the 
rural boors, and as a mere matter of good taste, she will 
acknowledge his superiority. And she will do as I wish in 
the long run, — she will be Duchess of Ormistoune.” 


XXII 


rj»HE long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and 
the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed 
so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular 
summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do, — 
nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his 
occupations seemed to him very humdrum, — his garden, now 
ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he 
thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the 
lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punt- 
ing, — the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun, — the 
water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil — besides* 
why go punting when there w r as nobody but one’s self to punt? 
Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined 
that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some 
mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in 
the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss 
Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Yancourt’s guests. 
Everything went ‘ up to the Manor ’ — or came ‘ down from 
the Manor’ — the village tradespeople were all catering for the 
Manor — and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly 
over to Riversford one day, came back with a board — ‘ a 
banner with a strange device ’ — painted in blue letters on a 
white ground, which said: 

PETROL 
Stored Here. 

This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascina- 
tion to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out 
of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed. 

“You’ll be settin’ the ’ouse on fire, Mr. iSetlips, I’m afraid,* 
said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and 
sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it 
proclaimed — “You don’t know nothink about petrol! An* 
we ain’t goin’ to have motor-cars often ’ere, please the Lord’s 
goodness ! ” 

Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile. 

349 


35 ° 


God’s Good Man 


“ My good woman,” — he said, with his most magisterial 
air — “ if you will kindly manage your own business, which is 
that of pruning the olive and uprooting the vine, and leave 
me to manage my establishment as the reversible movement 
of the age requires, it will be better for the equanimity of 
the gastritis.” 

“ Good Lord ! ” and Mrs. Frost threw up her hands — ■ 
“You’re a fine sort of man for a grocer, with your reversibles 
and your gastritis ! What in the world are you talking 
about ? ” 

Mr. Netlips, busy with the unpacking of a special Stilton 
cheese which he was about to send ‘ up to the Manor/ waved 
her away with one hand. 

“ I am talking above your head altogther, Mrs. Frost,” — • 
he said, placidly — “ I know it ! I am aware that my con- 
sonances do not tympanise on your brain. Good afternoon ! ” 

“ Petrol Stored Here ! ” — said Bainton, standing squat be- 
fore the announcement, as he returned from his day’s work — 
“ Hor-hor-hor ! Hor-hor ! I say, Mr. Netlips, don’t blow us 
all into the middle of next week. Where does ye store it? 
Out in the coal-shed ? It’s awful ’spensive, ain’t it ? ” 

“ It is costly,” — admitted Mr. Netlips, with a grandiose 
manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would 
have been equal to ‘ stocking ’ it — “ But the traveling aristo- 
crat does not interrogate the lucrative matter.” 

“ Don’t he ? ” and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively. 
“I s’pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an’ you 
gen’ally means a lot. Howsomever, I thought you was dead 
set against aristocrats anyway — your pol’tics was for what 
you call masses, — not classes, nor asses neither. Them was 
your sentiments not long ago, worn’t they ? ” 

Mr. Netlips drew himself up with an air of offended dignity. 

“ You forestall me wrong, Thomas Bainton,” — he said — 
“ And I prefer not to amplify the conference. A sentiment 
is no part of a political propinquity.” 

With that, he retired into the recesses of his ‘ general store/ 
leaving Bainton chuckling to himself, with a broad grin on 
his weatherbeaten countenance. 

The ‘ Petol ’ board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips’ 
shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which 
showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile 
tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and 
tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of 
the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple. Mrs. Tapple had 


God’s Good Man 


35i 


grown so accustomed to various titles and prefixes of rank 
among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the 
Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful 
awe of old Pippitt because he was a ‘ Sir/ she now regarded 

him almost with contempt. What was a ‘ Sir ’ to a ‘ Lord ’ ? 

Nothing! — less than nothing! For during one week she had 
sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a ‘ Fight 
Honourable/ besides despatching numerous telegrams for the 
Countess of Beaulyon. By all the gods and little fishes. Sir 
Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed! — for when Mrs. Tapple, 
bridling with scorn, said she ‘wondered ’ow a man like ’im 
wot only made his money in bone-boilin’ would dare to be 

seen with Miss Vancourt’s real quality’ it was felt that she 

was expressing an almost national sentiment. 

Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be 
denied that the new element infused into the little village 
community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, 
but also a sense of discontent. And John Walden, keenly 
alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the 
change than many another man would have been who was 
not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature. He 
noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly 
amusement, not altogether unmixed with pain, — he watched 
regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little 
parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from 
the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, 
no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whoso 
dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,— 
and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty 
Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, 
which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave 
an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly 
countenance. 

“ But I am old, — and old-fashioned too I ” — he said to him- 
self, resignedly — “ The world must move on — and as it moves 
it is bound to leave old times behind it — and me with them. 
I must not complain — nor should I, even in my own heart, 
find too many reproaches for the ways of the young.” 

And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson’s lines: — 

44 Only ‘dust to dust’ for me that sicken at your lawless din, — 
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin ! ” 

“ t Wholesome old-world dust ’ ! ” he mused — “ Yes ! I think 
it was more wholesome than our too heavily manured soil ! ” 


362 


God’s Good Man 


And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him ft*, 
the days when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly,, 
more soberly — with the trust and love of God inspiring the 
soul to purity and peace — when to find a woman who was at 
the same time an atheist was a thing so abnormal and re- 
pulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society. Society 1 
why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no 
secret of their shame! 

“ I must not dwell on these thoughts,” — he said, resolutely. 
41 The sooner I see Brent, the better. I’ve accepted his invi- 
tation for the last week of this month — I can be spared then 
for two or three days — indeed, I doubt whether I shall even 
be missed! The people only want me on Sundays now — 
and — though I do try not to notice it, — a good many of the 
congregation are absent from their usual places.” 

He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was 
Maryllia Vancourt — ‘ Maryllia Van’ — or rather her guests 
who had exercised a maleficent influence on his little cure of 
souls, and that because the ‘ quality ’ did not go to church on 
Sundays, then some of the villagers, — like serfs under the 
sway of nobles, — stayed away also. He realised that he had 
given offence to this same * quality,’ by pausing in his reading, 
when they entered late on the one occasion they did attend 
divine service, — but he did not care at all for that. He knew, 
that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle, unthinking 
upper classes of society, is always precisely what the upper 
classes do not want to hear; — and he was perfectly aware in 
his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 1 Soul/ 
had not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, 
while it had been a little over the heads of his own parish- 
ioners. 

“ Mere waste of words ! ” he mused, with a kind of self- 
reproach — “ I don’t know why I chose the text or subject at 
all. Yes — yes! — I do know! Why do I play the deceiver 
with myself! She was there — so winsome — so pretty! — and 
her soul is sweet and pure; — it must be sweet and pure, if it 
can look out of such clear windows as her eyes. Let all the 
world go, but keep that soul, I thought! — and so I spoke as I 
did. But I think she scarcely listened — it was all waste of 
time, waste of words, — waste of breath! I shall be glad to see 
dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says — and I 
most certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at 
the Manor, I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I 


God's Good Man 


353 

wish I were not going! But I have promised her — and I 
must not break my word ! ” 

He began to think about one or two matters that to him 
were not altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact 
that Sir Morton Pippitt had driven over twice now ‘ to inspect 
the church ’ — accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the 
Reverend ‘ Putty ’ Leveson. Once Lord Roxmouth had left 
his card at the rectory, and had written on it : ‘ Wishing to 

have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden’ — a pleasure which 
had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord 
Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss 
Yancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop 
Brent’s letter — but now that his lordship was staying as a 
guest at Badsworth Hall, rumour had spread the statement so 
very generally that it was an almost accepted fact. Three 
days had been sufficient to set the village and county talking ; — - 
Roxmouth and his tools never did their mischievous work by 
halves. John Walden accepted the report as others accepted 
it — only reserving to himself an occasion to ask Miss Yan- 
court if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself apart 
from the visitors — he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth — 
though hes knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forth- 
coming dinner-party at Abbot’s Manor. Bainton had that 
dinner-party on his mind as well as his master. He had 
heard enough of it on all sides. Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of 
it, saying that ‘what with jellies an’ ices an’ all the things 
as has to be thought of an’ got in ready,’ she was e fair mazed 
an’ moithered.’ And she held forth on the subject to one of 
her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob was still 
in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against the 
‘quality’ for the death of his pet dog. 

“ It’s somethin’ too terrible, I do assure you ! ” she said — 
“ the way these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to 
bust themselves! When they fust came down, I sez to cook, 
I sez — ‘ Lord bless ’em, they must ’ave all starved in their own 
’omes ’ — an’ she laughed — she ’avin’ ’sperience, an’ cooked 
for ’ouse-parties ever since she learned makin’ may’nases 
[mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was twenty, an’ 
she’s a round sixty now, an’ she sez, ‘ Lor, no ! It do frighten 
one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis 
Spruce, but don’t you worry — you just get the things, and 
they’ll know how to swaller ’em.’ Well now, Missis Keeley, if 
you’ll b’lieve me” — and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath 
and began to count on her fingers — “ This is ’ow we do every 


354 


God’s Good Man 


night for the visitors, makin’ ready for hextras, in case any 
gentleman comes along in a motor which isn’t expected — • 
fust we ’as horduffs ” 

“ Save us ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Keeley — “ What’s they ? ” 

“ Well 1 calls ’em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, 
Primmins sez, bein’ a butler he should know the French, an’ 
’tis a French word, an’ it’s nothin’ but little dishes ’anded 
round, olives an’ anchovies, an’ sardines an’- messes of every 
kind, enough to make ye sick to look at ’em — they swallers 
’em, an’ then we sends in soup — two kinds, white an’ clear. 
They swallers that , an’ the fish goes in — two kinds — the old 
Squire never had but one — that goes down, an’ then comes 
the hentreys. Them’s sometimes two — sometimes four — it 
just depends on the number we ’as at table. They’se all got 
French names — there’s nothing plain English about them. 
But they’se only bits o’ meat an’ fowl, done up in different 
ways with sauces an’ vegetables, an’ the quality eats ’em up 
as though they was two bites of an apple. Then we sends 
in the roast and b’iled — and they takes good cuts off both — 
then there’s game, — now that’s nearly alius all eat up, for 
I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down 
on a dish an’ no one else wants it — but there’s never a morsel 
left for me, I do assure you! Then comes puddings an’ 
sweets — then cheese savouries — then ices — an’ then coffee — 
an’ all the time the wine’s a-goin’, Primmins sez, every sort, 
claret, ’ock, chably, champagne, — an’ the Lord alone He knows 
wot their poor insides feels like when ’tis all a-mixin’ up 
together an’ workin’ round arterwards. But, as I sez, ’tain’t 
no business o’ mine if the fash’nables ’as trained their stum- 
micks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I’m told, ’ard 
iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should ’a’ bin dead 
an’ done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into 
me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentle- 
men drinks enough whiskey an’ soda to drown ’em if ’twas 
all put in a tub at once ” 

“ But Miss Yancourt,” interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had 
been listening to her friend’s flow of language in silent won- 
der, — “ She don’t eat an’ drink like that, do she ? ” 

“Miss Maryllia, bless ’er ’art, sits at her table like a little 
queen,” — said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion — “ Primmins sez 
she don’t eat scarce nothin’, and don’t say much neither. She 
just smiles pretty, an’ puts in a word or two, an’ then seems 
lookin’ away as if she saw somethink beautiful which nobody 
else can see. An’ that Miss Cicely Bourne, she’s just a pickle! 


God’s Good Man 


355 


— ’ow she do play the comic, to be sure! — she ran into the 
still-room the other day an’ danced round like a mad thing, 
an’ took off all the ladies with their airs an’ graces till I 
nearly died o’ larfin’ ! She’s a good little thing, though, 
takin’ ’er all round, though a bit odd in ’er way, but that 
comes of bein’ in France an’ learnin’ music, I expect. But I 
really must be goin’ — there’s heaps an’ heaps to do, but by 
an’ by we’ll have peace an’ quiet again — they’re all a-goin’ 
next week.” 

“Well, I shan’t be sorry!” — and Mrs. Keeley gave a short 
sigh of satisfaction — “ I’m fair sick o’ seein’ them motor-cars 
whizzin’ through the village makin’ such a dust an’ smell as 
never was, — an’ I’m sure there’s no love lost ’tweens Missis 
Frost an’ me, but it do make me worrited like when that 
there little Ipsie goes runnin’ out, not knowin’ whether she 
mayn’t be run over like my Bob’s pet dog. For the quality 
don’t seem to care for no one ’cept theirselves — an’ it ain’t 
peaceful like nor safe as ’twas ’fore they came. An’ I s’pose 
we’ll be seein’ Miss Maryllia married next ? ” 

Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked un- 
utterable things. 

“ ’Tain’t no good countin’ chickens ’fore they’re hatched. 
Missis Keeley ! ” she said — “ An’ the Lord sometimes fixes 
up marriages in quite a different way to what we expects. 
There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’s nor buryin’s yet in the 
Manor, please the A’mighty goodness, for one’s as mis’able 
as t’other, an’ both means change, which sometimes is good 
for the ’elth but most often contrariwise, though whatever 
’appens either way we must bend our ’eads under the rod 
to both. But I mustn’t stay chitterin’ ’ere any longer — good 
day t’ye! ” 

And nodding darkly as one who could say much an’ she 
would, the worthy woman ambled away. 

Scraps of information, such as this talk of Mrs. Spruce’s, 
reached Bain ton’s ears from time to time in a disjointed and 
desultory manner and moved him to profound cogitation. 
He was not quite sure now whether, after all, his liking for 
Miss Yancourt had not been greatly misplaced. 

“When I seed her first,” — he said to himself, pathetically, 
while hoeing the weeds out of the paths in the rectory garden, 
“When me an’ old Josey went up to get ’er to save the 
Five Sisters, she seemed as sweet as ’oney, — an’ she’s done 
many a kind thing for the village since. But I don’t care for 
’er friends. They’ve changed her like — they’ve made her 


God’s Good Man 


356 

forget all about us! An’ as for Passon, she don’t come nigh 
’im no more, an’ he don’t go nigh ’er. Seems to me ’tis all a 
muddle an’ a racket since the motor-cars went bouncin’ about 
an’ smellin’ like p’ison — ’tain’t wot it used to be. How- 
somever, let’s ’ope to the Lord it’ll soon be over. If wot 
they all sez is true, there’ll be a weddin’ ’ere soon, Passon ’ll 
marry Miss Vancourt to the future Dook, an’ away they’ll go, 
an’ Abbot’s Manor ’ll be shut up again as it used to afore. 
An’ the onny change we’ll ’ave will be Mr. Stanways for 
agent ’stead of Oliver Leach — which is a blessin’ — for Stan- 
ways is a decent, kindly man, an’ Oliver Leach — well now ! ” 
And he paused in his hoeing, fixing his round eyes medi- 
tatively on a wall where figs were ripening in the sun — 
u Blest if I can make out Oliver Leach ! One day he’s with 
old Putty Leveson — another he’s drunk as a lord in the gutter 
— an’ another he’s butterfly huntin’ with a net, lookin’ like 
a fool — but alius about the place — alius about — an’ he’s got 
a face that a kid would scream at seein’ it in the dark. I 
wish he’d find another situation in a fur-off neighbourhood ! ” 

Here, looking towards the lawn, he saw his master walking 
slowly up and down on the grass in front of his study window, 
with head bent and hands loosely clasped behind his back, 
apparently lost in thought. 

44 Passon ain’t hisself, — seems all gone to pieces like,” he 
mused — “ He don’t do nothin’ in the garden, — he ain’t a bit 
partikler or fidgetty — an’ all he cares about is the bits o’ 
glass which comes on approval from all parts o’ the world 
for the rose window. I sez to him t’other day — 4 Ain’t ye got 
enough old glass yet, Passon ? ’ — and he sez all absent-minded 
like, 4 Ho, Ba inton — not yet! There are many difficulties to 
be conquered — one must have patience. It’s almost like 
piecing a life together,’ sez he — 4 one portion is good — another 
bad — one’s got the true colour — the other’s false — and so on 
— it’s hard work to get all the little bits of love an’ charity an’ 
kindness to fit into their proper places. Don’t you under- 
stand?’ 4 Ho, Passon,’ sez I, 4 1 can’t say as I do! ’ Then he 
laughed, but sad like — an’ went away with his ’ead down as 
he’s got it now. Something’s wrong with him — an’ it’s all 
since Miss Vancourt came. She’s a real worry to ’im I ’spect, 
— an’ it’s true enough the place ain’t like what it was a month 
ago. Yet there’s no denyin’ she’s a sweet little lady for all 
one can say ! ’ 

Bainton’s sentiments were a fair reflection of the general 
village opinion, though in the town of Biversford the tide of 


God’s Good Man 


357 ' 

feeling ran high, and controversy raged furiously, over the 
ways and doings of Miss Vancourt and her society friends. 
A certain vague awe stole over the gossips, however, when 
they heard that, whether rapid or non-rapid, ‘Maryllia Van/ 
as Sir Morton Pippitt persisted in calling her, was likely to 
be the future Duchess of Ormistoune. Lord Roxmouth had 
been seen in Riversford just once, and many shop-girls had 
declared him 1 so distinguished looking ! ’ Mordaunt Appleby, 
the brewer, had thrown out sundry hints to Sir Morton Pip- 
pitt that he ‘ should be pleased to see his lordship at Appleby 
House ’ — Appleby House being the name of his, the brewer’s, 
residence — but somehow his lordship had not yet availed 
himself of the invitation. Sufficient, however, was altogether 
done and said by all concerned to weave a web of worry 
round Maryllia, — and to cause her to heartily regret that she 
had ever asked any of her London acquaintances down to her 
house. 

“ I did it as a kind of instruction to myself, — a lesson and 
U test,” she said — “ But I had far better have run the risk of 
being called an old maid and a recluse than have got these 
people round me, — all of whom I thought were my friends, — 
but who have been more or less tampered with by Aunt Emily 
and Roxmouth, and pressed in to help carry on the old 
scheme against me of a detestable alliance with a man I hate. 
Well! — I have learned the falsity of their protestations of 
liking and admiration and affection for me, — and I’m sorry 
for it! I should like to believe in the honesty of at least 
a few persons in the world — if that were possible! — I don’t 
want to have myself always ‘ on guard ’ against intrigue and 
humbug ! ” 

Everyone present, however, on the night of the last dinner- 
party she gave to her London guests, was bound to admit 
that a sweeter, fairer creature than its present mistress never 
trod the old oaken floors of Abbot’s Manor ; and that even 
the radiant pictured beauty of * Mary Elia Adelgisa de 
Vaignecourt,’ to whom no doubt many a time the Merry 
Monarch had doffed his plumed hat in salutation, paled and 
grew dim before the living rose of Maryllia’s dainty loveliness 
and the magnetic tenderness of Maryllia’s eyes. Something 
of the exquisite pensiveness of her mother’s countenance, as 
portrayed in the long hidden picture which was now one of 
the gems of the Manor gallery, seemed to soften the outline 
of her features, and deepen the character and play of the 
varying expression which made her so fascinating to those 


358 


God’s Good Man 


who look for the soul in a woman’s face, rather than its mere 
physical form. Lady Beaulyon, beautiful though she was, 
owed something to art; but Maryllia was nature’s own un- 
touched product, and everything about her exhaled freshness, 
sweetness, and radiant vitality. Boxmouth, entering * most 
carefully upon his hour,’ namely at a quarter to eight o’clock, 
found her singularly attractive, — more so, he thought, than 
he had ever before realised. The stately old-world setting of 
Abbot’s Manor suited her — the dark oak panelling, — the 
Flemish tapestries, the worn shields and scutcheons, the old 
banners and armorial bearings, — all the numerous touches of 
the past which spoke of chivalry, ancestral pride and loyalty 
to great traditions, lent grace and colouring to the picture 
she herself made, as she received her guests with that sweet 
kindness, ease and distinction, which are the heritage of race 
and breeding. 

“ Pretty little shrew ! ” he said, in an aside to Marius Long- 
ford — “ She is really charming, — and I begin to think I want 
her as much for herself as for her aunt’s millions ! ” 

Longford smiled obsequiously. 

“ There is a certain air of originality, or shall we say indi- 
viduality, about the lady,” — he observed, with a critical, not 
to say insolent stare in Maryllia’s direction, — “ The French 
term 1 beaute du diable’ expresses it best. But whether the 
charm will last, is another question.” 

“No woman’s beauty lasts more than a few years,” — said 
Boxmouth, as he glanced at the various guests who had en- 
tered or were entering. “ Lady Beaulyon wears well — but 
she is forty years old, and begins to show it. Margaret Blud- 
lip Courtenay must be fifty, and she doesn’t show it — she 
manages her Paris cosmetics wonderfully. Some of these 
county ladies would be better for a little touch of her art ! 
But Maryllia Vancourt needs no paint, — she can afford to be 
natural. Is that the parson ? ” 

Walden was just entering the room, and Longford put up 
his glasses. 

“ Yes,” — he replied — “ That is the parson. He is not 
without character.” 

Boxmouth became suddenly interested. He saw Walden 
go up to his hostess and bow — he also saw the sudden smile 
that brightened Maryllia’s face as she welcomed her clerical 
guest, — the one Churchman of the party. 

“Bather a distinguished looking fellow,” — he commented 
carelessly — “ Is he clever ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


359 


Longford hesitated. He had been pulverised in one of the 
literary weeklies by an article on the authenticity of Shake- 
speare’s plays, signed boldly ‘John Walden’ — and he had 
learned, by cautious enquiries here and there in London, that 
though, for the most part, extremely unassuming, the afore- 
said John Walden was considered an authority in matters of 
historical and antiquarian research. But he was naturally 
anxious that the future Duke of Ormistoune, when he had 
secured Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, should not extend his 
powerful patronage to a country clergyman who might, from 
a ‘ Savage and Savile ’ point of view, be considered an inter- 
loper. So he replied with caution: 

“I believe he dabbles a little in literary and archteological 
pursuits, — many parsons do. As an archaeologist, he certainly 
has merit. You entertain a favourable opinion of the church 
he has restored ? ” 

“ The church, as I have before told you, is perfect,” — 
replied Roxmouth — “And the man who carried out such a 
design must needs be an interesting personality. I think 
Miss Vancourt finds him so! ” 

His cold grey eyes lightened unpleasantly as he made this 
remark, and Marius Longford, quick to discern every shade of 
tone in a voice, recognised a touch of satire in the seemingly 
casual words. He made no observation, however, but kept 
his lynx eyes and ears open, watching and listening for any- 
thing that might perchance be of use in furthering his 
patron’s desires and aims. 

Walden, meanwhile, had, quite unconsciously to himself, 
created a little sensation by his appearance. He was the 
parson who had dared to stop in his reading of the service 
because the Manor house-party had entered the church a 
quarter of an hour behind time , — he was the man who had 
told them that it was no use gaining the whole world if they 
lost their own souls, — as if, in this advanced era of progress, 
any one of them had souls to lose ! Preposterous ! Here he was, 
this country cleric, who, as he was introduced by his hostess 
to the various gentlemen standing immediately about her, 
smiled urbanely, bowed ceremoniously, and comported him- 
self with an air of intellectual oomposure and dignity that 
had a magnetic effect upon all. Yet in himself he was singu- 
larly ill at ease. Various emotions in his mind contended 
together to make him so. To begin with, he disliked social 
* functions ’ of all kinds, and particularly those at which any 
noted persons of the so-called ‘ Smart Set ’ were present. He 


God’s Good Man 


360 

disliked women who made capital out of their beauty, by 
allowing their photographs to be on sale in shop-windows and 
to appear constantly in cheap pictorials, and of these Lady 
Beaulyon was a notorious example, to say nothing of the 
graver sins against morality and principle for which she was 
renowned. He had no sympathy with sporting or betting 
men — and he knew by repute that Lord Charlemont and 
Bludlip Courtenay were of this class. Then again, deep 
down in his own soul, he resented the fact that Maryllia Van- 
court entertained this sort of people as her guests. She was 
much too good for them, he thought, — she wronged herself 
by being in their company, or allowing them to be in hers! 
He watched her as she received part of the ‘ county ’ in the 
Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite Park, with a charming smile of 
welcome for Bruce Ittlethwaite, a lively bachelor of sixty, 
and for his eldest sister Arabella, some ten years younger, a 
lady whose portly form was attired in a wonderful apple- 
green satin, trimmed with priceless lace, the latter entirely 
lost as an article of value, among the misshapen folds of the 
green gown, which had been created, no doubt, by some local 
dressmaker, whose ideas were evidently more voluminous than 
artistic. And presently, as he stood, a quiet spectator of the 
different types of persons who were mingling with each other 
in the casual conversation on current topics and events, which 
always occupies that interval of time known as the 1 mauvais 
quart d’heure’ before the announcement of dinner, he hap- 
pened to look at Maryllia’s own dress, and, noticing it more 
closely, smiled. It was not the first time he had seen that 
dress! — and a faint colour warmed his cheeks as he remem- 
bered the occasion when Mrs. Spruce had sent for him as a 
‘ man o’ God 9 to serve as a witness to her system of unpack- 
ing her lady’s wardrobe. That was the dress the garrulous 
old housekeeper had held up in her arms as though she were 
a clothes-prop, with the observation, ‘ It’s orful wot the world’s 
a-comin’ to — orful ! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown ! 9 
The gown with the 1 diamants ’ was the very one which now 
clothed Maryllia, — falling over an underskirt of palest pink 
satin, it glittered softly about her like dew spangles on rose- 
leaves — and involuntarily Walden thought of the pink shoes 
he had also seen, — those absurd little shoes! — did she wear 
them with that fairy -like frock, he wondered? He dared not 
look towards the floor, lest he should catch a sudden glimpse 
of the shining points of that ridiculous but fascinating foot- 
gear that had once so curiously discomposed him. Those 


God’s Good Man 


361 


shoes might peep out at any moment from under the 1 dia- 
mants ’ — with a blink of familiarity which would be, to say 
the least of it, embarrassing. His reflections were at this 
juncture interrupted by a smooth voice at his ear. 

“How do you do, Mr. Walden?” 

A glance showed the speaker to be Mr. Marius Longford, 
and he responded with brief courtesy. 

“ Permit me ” — continued Mr. Longford — “ to introduce 
you to Lord Boxmouth ! ” 

Walden bowed stiffly. 

“I must congratulate you on the beauty of your church, 
Mr. Walden,” — said Boxmouth, with his usual conventional 
smile — “I have never seen a finer piece of work. It is not 
so much a restoration as a creation.” 

Walden said nothing. He did not particularly care for 
compliments from Lord Boxmouth. 

“ That sarcophagus,” — continued his lordship — “ was a very 
singular ‘find.’ I suppose you have no clue to the possible 
identity of the saint or sinner whose ashes repose within it ? ” 

“ None,” — replied Walden — “ Something might probably be 
discovered if the casket were opened. But that will never 
happen during my lifetime.” 

“You would consider it sacrilege, no doubt?” queried Box- 
mouth, with a tolerant air. 

“ I should, most certainly ! ” 

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Sir Morton Pippitt, obtruding 
himself on the conversation at this moment — “ God bless my 
soul! Not so very long ago every churchyard in England 
used to have its regular clean out — ha-ha-ha! — all the bones 
and skulls used to be dug up and thrown together in a charnel 
house, higgledy-piggledy — and nobody ever talked about sacri- 
lege! You should progress with the age, Mr. Walden! — you 
should progress! Why shouldn’t a coffin be opened as readily 
as any other box, eh? There’s generally nothing inside — 
ha-ha-ha ! — nothing inside worth keeping, ha-ha-ha ! The 
plan of a spring-cleaning for churchyards was an excellent 
one, I think; — God bless my soul! — why not? — makes room 
for more bodies and saves extra land being given up to those 
who are past farming it, except in the way of manure, ha-ha- 
ha! There’s no such thing as sacrilege nowadays, Mr. Wal- 
den! — why we’ve got the photograph of Bameses, taken after 
a few thousand years’ decomposition had set in — ha-ha-ha! 
And not bad looking — not bad looking ! — rather wild about the 
eyes, that’s all — ha-ha ! God bless my soul ! ” 


362 


God’s Good Man 


These choice observations of the knight Pippitt were 
brought to a happy conclusion by the marshalling of the 
guests into dinner. Sir Morton, much to his chagrin, found 
himself deputed to escort Lady Wicketts, whose unwieldy 
proportions allied to his own, made it difficult for both to 
pass with proper dignity through the dining-room doorway. 
A little excited whispering between Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay 
and Lady Beaulyon took place, as to whether ‘ Maryllia Van* 
in her professed detestation of Lord Roxmouth, would forget 
etiquette and the rule of ‘ precedence’ — but they soon saw 
she did not intend to so commit herself. For when all her 
guests had passed in before her, she followed resignedly on 
the arm of the future Duke. As the greatest stranger, and 
as the highest in social rank of all present, he had claim to 
this privilege, and she was too tactful to refuse it. 

“ What a delightful chatelaine you are ! ” he murmured, 
looking down at her as she rested her little gloved hand with 
scarce a touch on his arm — “ And how proud and glad I am 
to be once more beside you! Ah, Maryllia, you are very 
cruel to me! If you would only realise how happy we could 
be — always together ! ” 

She made no answer. Arriving in the dining-room, she 
withdrew her hand from his arm, and seated herself at the 
head of her table. He then found that he was on her right 
hand, while Lord Charlemont was on her left. Next to Lord 
Oharlemont sat Lady Beaulyon, — and next to Lady Beaulyon 
John Walden was placed with the partner allotted to him, 
Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. On Roxmouth’s own side there were 
Lady Wicketts and Sir Morton Pippitt, — so it chanced that 
the table was arranged in a manner that brought certain 
parties who were by no means likely to agree on any one 
given point, directly opposite to each other. Cicely, peeping 
out from a little ante-room, where she had entreated to be 
allowed to stand and watch the proceedings, made a running 
commentary on this in her own particular fashion. Cicely 
was looking very picturesque, in a new white frock which 
Maryllia had given her, — with a broad crimson sash knotted 
carelessly round her waist and a ribbon of the same colour 
in her luxuriant black hair. She was to sing after dinner — 
Gigue had told her she was to ‘astonish ze fools’ — and she 
was ready to do it. Her dark eyes shone like stars, and her 
lips were cherry-red with excitement, — so much 'so that Mrs. 
Spruce, thinking she was feverish, had given her a glass of 
‘cooling cordial’ — made of fruit and ice and lemon water. 


Gods Good Man 363 

which she was enjoying at intervals while criticising the fine 
folks in the dining-room. 

.“Well done, Maryllia!” she murmured, as she saw her 
friend enter on Roxmouth’s arm — “ Cold as a ray of the 
moon, but doing her social duty to the bitter end! What 
a tom-cat Roxmouth is! — a sleek pussy, sure to snarl if his 
fur is rubbed up the wrong way — but he is just the type that 
some women would like to marry — he looks so well-bred. 
Poor Mr. Walden! — he’s got to talk to the Everlasting- Youth 
lady, — and old Sir Morton Pippitt is immediately opposite 
to him! — now that’s too bad of Maryllia! — it really is! She 
knows how the bone-boiler longs to boil Mr. Walden’s bones, 
and that Mr. Walden wishes Sir Morton Pippitt were miles 
away from him! They shouldn’t have faced each other. But 
how very, very superior to all the lot Mr. Walden looks! — 
he really is handsome ! — he has such an intellectual head. 
There’s Gigue chattering away to poor old Miss Eosby! — oh 
dear! Miss Fosby will never understand him! What a 
motley crew! And I shall have to sing to them all after 
they’ve dined! Saint Moses! It will be a sort of ‘first ap- 
pearance in England.’ A good test, too, because all the Eng- 
lish eat nearly to bursting before they go to the opera. No 
wonder they never can grasp what the music is about, or 
who’s who ! It’s all salmon and chicken and lobster and 
champagne with them — not Beethoven or Wagner or Rossini. 
Good old Gigue! His spirits are irrepressible! How he is 
laughing! Mr. Walden looks very serious — almost tragic — • 
I wonder what he is thinking about! I wish I could hear 
what they are all saying — but it’s nothing but buzz, buzz ! ” 

She took a sip at her ‘ cordial,’ watching with artistic 
appreciation the gay scene in the Manor dining-room — the 
twinkling lights on the silver and glass and flowers — the 
elegant dresses of the women, — the jewels that flashed like 
starbeams on the lovely neck and shoulders of Lady Beaulyon, 
— the ripples of gold-auburn in Maryllia’s hair, — it was a 
picture that radiated with a thousand colours on the eye and 
the brain, and was certainly one destined, so far as many of 
those who formed a part of it were concerned, never to be 
forgotten. Not that there was anything very remarkable or 
brilliant in the conversation at the dinner-table, — there never 
is nowadays. People dine with their friends merely to eat, 
not to talk. One never by any chance hears so much even 
as an echo of wit or wisdom. Occasionally a note of scandal 
is struck, — and more often than not, a questionable anecdote 


364 


God’s Good Man 


is related, calculated to bring 1 a blush to the cheek of the 
Young Person,’ if a Young Person who can blush still exists, 
and happens to be present. But as a rule, the general 
habitude of the dining class is to discourse in a very desultory 
and inconsequential, not to say stupid, style, and the guests 
at the Manor proved no exception to the rule. Sir Morton 
Pippitt fired off bumptious observations at Walden, who paid! 
no heed to them — Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, 
found a congenial spirit in Lord Charlemont, and talked 
sport right through the repast — and Louis Gigue enlivened 
the table by a sudden discussion with Mr. Marius Longford, 
relative to the position of art in Great Britain. 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers — 
“ Ze art is dead in Angleterre, — zere is no musique, ze poesie. 
Zis is ze land of ze A-penny journal — ze musique, ze poesie, 
ze science, ze politique, ze sentiment, — one A-penny! Bah! 
£a, ce, n’est pas possible! — zis pauvre pays is kill avec ze 
vulgarite of ze cheap! Ze people are for ze cheap — for ze 
photographie, instead of ze picture — ze gramophone, instead 
of ze artist fingers avec ze brain — et ze literature — it is ze 
cheap < imitation de Zola,’ qui obtient les eloges du monde 
critique a Londres. Vous ecrivez?” — and he shook his finger 
at Longford — ■“ Bien ! Ecrivez un roman qui est sain, pure 
et noble — et ze A-penny man vill moque de ga — mais — 
ecrivez of ze dirt of ze human naturel, et voila! Ze A-penny 
man say ‘ Bon ! Ah que c’est l’art ! Donnes moi l’ordure 
que je peux sentir ! C’est naturel ! C’est divin ! C’est l’art ! ’ ” 

A murmur, half of laughter, half of shocked protest, went 
round the table. 

“I think,” said Mr. Longford, with a pale smile — “ that 
according to the school of the higher criticism, we must 
admit the natural to be the only divine.” 

Gigue’s rolling eyes gleamed under his shaggy hair. 

“ Je ne comprends pas!” — he said — “ Ven ze pig squeak, 
c’est naturel — ce n’est pas divin! Ven ze man scratch ze 
flea, c’est naturel — ce n’est pas divin! Ze art ne desire pas 
ze picture of ze flea ! Ze literature n’existe pas pour ze squeak 
of ze pig ! Ah, bah ! L’art, — c’est l’imagination — l’ideal — 
c’est le veritable Dieu en l’homme ! ” 

Longford gave vent to a snigger, which was his way of 
laughing. 

“ God is an abstract illusion,” — he said — “ One does not 
introduce a non-available quantity in the summing up of 
facts ! ” 


God's Good Man 


365 


“Ah! Vous ne croyez pas en Dieu?” And Gigue ruffled 
up his grey hair with one hand. “ Mais — a quoi bon ! Ca ne 
sert rien ! Dieu peut exister sans votre croyance, Monsieur ! 
• — je vous jure! ” 

And he laughed — a hearty laugh that was infectious and 
carried the laughter of everyone else with it. Longford, 
irritated, turned to his next neighbour with some trite ob- 
servation, and allowed the discussion to drop. But Walden 
had heard it, and his heart went out to Gigue for the manner 
in which he had, for the moment at least, quenched the light 
of the ‘ Savage and Savile.’ 

Up at the end of the table at which he, Walden, sat, things 
were of rather a strained character. Lord Boxmouth essayed 
to be witty and conversational, but received so little encour- 
agement in his sallies from Maryllia, that he had to content 
himself with Lady Wicketts, whom he found a terrible bore. 
Sir Morton Pippitt, eating heartily of everything, was gradu- 
ally becoming purple in the face and somnolent under the 
influence of wine and food, — Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, tired of 
trying to ‘draw’ Walden on sundry topics, got cross and 
impatient, the more so as she found that he could make 
himself very charming to the other people in his immediate 
vicinity, and that, as the dinner proceeded, he i came out ’ as 
it were, very unexpectedly in conversation, and proved him- 
self not only an intellectually brilliant man, but a socially 
entertaining one. Lord Boxmouth glanced at him curiously 
from time to time with growing suspicion and disfavour. He 
was not the kind of subservient, half hypocritical, mock-meek 
being that is conventionally supposed to represent a country 
6 cure.’ His independent air, his ease of manner, and above 
all, his intelligence and high culture, were singularly dis- 
pleasing to Lord Boxmouth, especially as he noticed that 
Maryllia listened to everything Walden said, and appeared 
to be more interested in his observations than in those of 
anyone else at the table. Exchanging a suggestive glance 
with Lady Beaulyon, Boxmouth saw that she was taking 
notes equally with himself on this circumstance, and his 
already hard face hardened, and grew colder and more in- 
flexible as Walden, with a gaiety and humour irresistibly his 
own, kept the ball of conversation rolling, and gradually drew 
to his own strong and magnetic personality, the appreciative 
attention of nearly all present. 

Truth to tell, a sudden exhilaration and excitement had 
wakened up John’s latent forces, — Mary Ilia’s eyes, glancing 


God’s Good Man 


366 

half timidly, half wistfully at him, and her fair face, slightly 
troubled in its expression, had moved him to an exertion of 
his best powers to please her, and make everything bright and 
gay around her. Instinct told him that some secret annoyance 
fretted her — and watching her looks, and noting the mono- 
syllabic replies she gave to Lord Roxmouth whenever that 
distinguished personage addressed her, he decided, with a 
foolish thrill at his heart, that the report of her intended 
marriage with this nobleman could not be true — she could 
never look so coldly at anyone she loved! And with this idea 
paramount in his brain he gave himself up to the humour 
of the hour — and by and by heads were turned in his direc- 
tion, and people whispered — ‘ Is that the parson of the 
parish ? ’ — and when the answer was given in the affirmative, 
wondering glances were exchanged, and someone at the other 
end of the table remarked sotto voce: — ‘Much too brilliant a 
man for the country ! ’ — whereat Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite 
bridled up and said she ‘ hoped nobody thought that town 
offered the only samples of the human brain worth noticing/ 
as she would, in that case, ‘beg to differ.’ Whereat there 
ensued a lively discussion, which ended, so far as the general 
experience went, in the decision that clever men were always 
born or discovered in the country, but that after a while they 
invariably went up to town, and there became famous. 

Presently, the dinner drawing to an end, dessert, coffee and 
the smoking conveniences for both ladies and gentlemen were 
handed round, — cigars for the gentlemen, cigarettes for both 
gentlemen and ladies. All the women helped themselves to 
cigarettes, as a matter of course, with the exception of Miss 
Ittlethwaite, — (who, as a ‘county’ lady of the old school, sat 
transfixed with horror at the bare idea of being expected to 
smoke) — poor old Miss Fosby, and Maryllia. And now oc- 
curred an incident, in itself trifling, but fraught with strange 
results to those immediately concerned. Lady Beaulyon w r as 
just about to light her own cigarette when, in obedience to a 
sudden thought that flashed across her brain, she turned her 
lovely laughing face round towards Walden, and said: 

“ As there’s a clergyman present, I’m sure we ought to ask 
his permission before we light up! Don’t you think it very 
shocking for women to smoke, Mr. Walden?” 

He looked straight at her — his face paling a little with a 
sense of strongly suppressed feeling. 

“ I have always been under the impression that English 
ladies never smoke,” — he said, quietly, with a very slight 


Gods Good Man 367 

emphasis on the word ‘ ladies/ “ The rest, of course, must 
do as they please ! ” 

Had a bombshell suddenly exploded in the dining-room, the 
effect could hardly have been more stupefying than these words. 
There was an awful pause. The women, holding the unlit 
cigarettes delicately between their fingers, looked enquiringly 
at their hostess. The men stared; Lord Boxmouth laughed. 

Maryllia turned white as a snowdrop — but her eyes blazed 
with sudden amazement, indignation and pride that made 
lightning in their tender blue. Then, — deliberately choosing 
a cigarette from the silver box which had been placed on the 
table before her, she lit it, — and began to puff the smoke from 
her rosy lips in delicate rings, turning to Lord Roxmouth as 
she did so with a playful word and smile. It was enough; — 
the ‘ lead ? was given. A glance of approval went the round of 
her London lady guests — who, exonerated by her prompt 
action from all responsibility, lighted their cigarettes without 
further ado, and the room was soon misty with tobacco fumes. 
Hot a word was addressed to Walden, — a sudden mantle of 
fog seemed to have fallen over him, covering him up from the 
consciousness of the company, for no one even glanced at him, 
except covertly, — no one appeared to have heard or noticed 
his remark. Lord Charlemont looked, as he felt, distressed. 
In his heart he admired Walden for his boldness in speaking 
out frankly against a modern habit of women which he also 
considered reprehensible, — but at the same time he recognised 
that the reproof had perhaps been administered too openly. 
Walden himself sat rigid and very pale — he fully realised what 
he had done, — and he knew he was being snubbed for it — but 
he did not care. 

“ Better so ! ” — he said to himself in an inward rage — 
“ Better that I should never see her again than see her as she 
is now! She wrongs herself! — and I cannot be a silent wit- 
ness of her wrong, even though it is wrought by her own 
hand!” 

The buzz of talk now grew more loud and incessant; — he 
saw Sir Morton Pippitt’s round eyes fixed upon him with an 
astonished and derisive stare, — and he longed for the moment 
to come when he might escape from the whole smoking, 
chattering party. All that his own eyes oonsciously beheld 
was Maryllia — Maryllia, the dainty, pretty, delicate feminine 
creature who seemed created out of the finest mortal and 
spiritual essences, — smoking ! That cigarette stuck in her 
pretty mouth, vulgarised her appearance at once, — coarsened 


God’s Good Man 


368 

her — made her look as if she were indeed the rapid 1 Maryllia 
Van ’ his friend Bishop Brent had written of. What did he 
care if not a soul at that table ever spoke to him again? 
Nothing! But he cared — oh, he cared greatly for any rough- 
ening touch on that little figure of smooth white and rose 
flesh, which somehow he had, unconsciously to himself, set 
in a niche for thoughts higher than common! He was quite 
aware that he had committed a social error, yet he was sorry 
she could not have reproved him in some other fashion than 
that of deliberately doing what he had just contemned as 
unbecoming to a lady. And his mind was in a whirl, when at 
last she rose to give the signal to adjourn, passing out of the 
dining-room without a glance in his direction. 

The moment she had vanished, he at once prepared to leave, 
not only the room, but the house. No one offered to detain 
him. The men were all too conscious of what they considered 
his ( faux pas 9 — and they were also made rather uncomfortable 
by the decided rebuff he had received from their hostess. Yet 
they all liked him, and were, in their way, sorry for what had 
occurred. Lord Boxmouth, with the easy assurance of one 
who is conscious of his own position, remarked with kindly 
banter : — 

“Won’t you stay with us, Mr. Walden? Are you obliged 
to go?” 

Walden looked at him unflinchingly, yet with a smile. 

“ When a man elects to speak his mind, Lord Boxmouth, 
his room is better than his company ! ” 

And with this he left them — to laugh at him if they chose 
— caring little whether they did or not. Passing into the hall, 
he took his hat and coat, — he was angry with himself, yet not 
ashamed, — for something in his soul told him that he had 
done rightly, even as a minister of the Gospel, to utter a 
protest against the vulgarising of womanhood. He stepped 
out into the courtyard — the moon was rising, and the air was 
very sweet and cool. 

# “ I was wrong ! ” — he said, half aloud — “ And yet I was 
right! I should not have said what I did, — and yet I should! 
If no man is ever bold enough to protest again the volun- 
tary and fast-increasing self -degradation of women, then 
men will be most to blame if the next generation cf wives 
and mothers are shameless, unsexed, indecorous, and wholly 
unworthy of their life’s mission. How angry she looked! 
Possibly she will never speak to me again. Well, what doee 
it matter ! The wider apart our paths are set, the better ! 99 


God’s Good Man 


369 

He reached the gate of the courtyard, and was about to 
pass through it, when a little fluttering figure in white, with 
crimson in its rough dark hair, rushed after him. It was 
Cicely. 

“Don’t go, please Mr. Walden!” she said, breathlessly; and 
he saw, even by the light of the moon, that her eyes were wet 
— “Please don’t go! Maryllia wishes to speak to you.” 

He turned a pale, composed face upon her. 

“Where?” 

“ In the picture-gallery. She is alone there. She saw you 
cross the courtyard, and sent me after you. All the other 
people are in the drawing-room, waiting to hear me sing — and 
I must run, for Gigue is there, and he is so impatient ! Please, 
Mr. Walden!” — and Cicely’s voice shook — “Please don’t 
mind if Maryllia is angry ! She is angry ! But it’s all on the 
surface — she doesn’t really mean it — she wouldn’t be unkind 
for all the world! I know what you said, — I was watching 
the dinner-party from the ante-room and I saw everything — 
and — and — I think you were just splendid! — it’s horrid for 
women to smoke — but they nearly all do it nowadays — only I 
never saw Maryllia do it before, and oh, Mr. Walden, make it 
all right with her, please ! ” 

For a moment John hesitated. Then a kind smile softened 
his features. 

“ I can’t quite promise that, Cicely, — but I’ll do my best ! ” 
And taking her hand he patted it gently, as she furtively 
dashed one or two tear-drops from her lashes — “ Come, come, 
you mustn’t cry! Run away and sing like the little nightin- 
gale you are — don’t fret ” 

“ But you’ll go to Maryllia, won’t you ? ” she urged, anx- 
iously. 

“Yes. I’ll go!” 

She lifted her dark eyes, and he saw how true and full of 
soul they were, despite their witch-like wildness and passion. 
Just then a stormy passage of music, played on the piano, and 
tumbling out, as it seemed, on the air through the open 
windows of the Manor drawing-room, reminded her that she 
was being waited for by her impetuous and impatient maestro. 

“ That’s the signal for me ! ” she said — “ I must run ! But 
oh do, do make it up with Maryllia and be friends ! ” 

She rushed away. He waited till she had disappeared, then 
turning back through the courtyard, slowly re-entered the 
house. 


XXIII 


rpHE lights were burning low and dimly in the. picture- 
“** gallery when he entered it and saw Maryllia there, 
pacing restlessly up and down, the folds of her dress with the 
* diamants ’ sparkling around her as she moved, like a million 
little drops of frost on gossamer, while her small head, lifted 
proudly on its slim arched throat, seemed to his heated fancy, 
as though crowned with fresh coronals of gold woven from the 
summer sun. Turning, she confronted him and paused irres- 
olute, — then, with a sudden impulsive gesture, came forward 
swiftly, — her cheeks flaming crimson, — her lips trembling, and 
her bosom heaving with its quickened breath like that of a 
fluttered bird. 

“ How dare you ! ” she said, in a low, strained voice — “ How 
dare you ! ” 

He met her eyes, — and in that moment individual and 
personal considerations were swept aside, and only the Right 
and the Wrong presented themselves to his mental vision, 
like witnesses from a higher world, invisible but omnipotent, 
waiting for the result of the first clash of combat between two 
human souls. Yielding to his own over-mastering emotion, 
and reckless of consequences, he caught her two hands lightly 
in his own. 

“And how dare you!” he said earnestly, — “Little girl, 
how dare you so hurt yourself ! ” 

They gazed upon one another, — each one secretly amazed 
at the other’s outbreak of feeling, — she grown white and 
speechless, — he with a swift strong sense of his own power and 
authority as a mere man, nerving him to the utterance of 
truth for her sake — for her sake I — regardless of all forms and 
ceremonies. Then he dropped her hands as quickly as he had 
grasped them. 

“ Forgive me ! ” he said, very softly, — and paused, till 
recovering more of his self-possession, he continued quietly — 
“You should not have sent for me, Miss Vancourt! Knowing 
that I had offended you, I was leaving your house, never 
intending to enter it again. Why did you summon me back? 


God’s Good Man 371 

To reproach me? It would be kinder to spare me this, and 
let me go my own way ! ” 

He waited for her to speak. But she was silent. Anger, 
humiliation and wounded pride, mingled with a certain 
struggling respect and admiration for his boldness, held her 
mute. She little knew how provocatively lovely she looked 
as she stood haughtily immovable, her eyes alone flashing 
eloquent rebellion; — she little guessed that John committed 
the picture of her fairness to the innermost recording cells of 
his brain, there to be stored up preciously, and never for- 
gotten. 

“I am sorry,” — he resumed — “that I spoke as I did just 
now at your table — because you are angry with me. But I 
cannot say that I am sorry for any other reason ” 

At this Maryllia found her voice suddenly. 

“You have insulted my guests ” 

“ Ah, no ! ” said John, almost with a smile — “ Women who 
are habitual smokers are not easily insulted! They are past 
that, believe me! The fine susceptibilities which one might 
otherwise attribute to them have been long ago blunted. 
They do not command respect, and naturally, they can 
scarcely expect to receive it.” 

“ I do not agree with you ! ” retorted Maryllia, with rising 
warmth, as she regained her self-control, and with it her deep 
sense of irritation — “ You were rude, — and rudeness is un- 
pardonable! You said as much as to imply that none of the 
women present were ladies ” 

“ None of those who smoked were ! ” — said John, coolly. 

“ Mr. Walden ! I myself, smoked ! ” 

“ You did,” — and he moved a step or two nearer to her, his 
whole face lighting up with keen emotion — “And why did 
you? The motive was intended to be courteous — but the 
principle was wrong ! ” 

“Wrong!” she echoed, angrily — “Wrong?” 

“Yes — wrong! Have you never been told that you can do 
one thing wrong among so many that you do right. Miss 
Vancourt?” he asked, with great gentleness — “You had it in 
your power to show your true womanliness by refusing to 
smoke, — you could, in your position as hostess, have saved 
your women friends from making fools of themselves — yes — 
the word is out, and I don’t apologise for it ! ”• — here a sudden 
smile kindled in his fine eyes — “And you could also have 
given them all an example of obedience.” 


372 


God’s Good Man 


“ Obedience ! ” exclaimed Maryllia, astonished, — “ What do 
you mean ? Obedience to whom ? ” 

“ To me!” replied John, with perfect composure. 

She gazed at him, scarcely believing she had heard aright. 

“ To you ? ” she repeated — “ To you ? ” 

“ Why certainly! ” said John, wondering even as he spoke at 
his own ease and self-assurance — “ As minister of the parish I 
am the only person here that is set in authority over you — and 
the first thing you do is to defy me ! ” 

His manner was whimsical and kindly, — his tone of voice 
playfully tender, as though he were speaking to some naughty 
child whom, notwithstanding its temper, he loved too well to 
scold, — and Maryllia was completely taken aback by this 
unexpected method of treating her combative humour. Her 
pretty mouth opened like a rosebud, — she seemed as though 
she would speak, but only an inarticulate murmur came from 
her parted lips ; while the very faintest lurking suspicion of a 
smile crept dimpling over her face, to be lost again in the 
hostile expression of her eyes. 

“ You say I was rude,” — he went on, — “ If I was, need you 
have been rude too ? ” 

She found utterance quickly. 

“ I was not rude ” she began. 

“ Pardon me, — you were! Eude to me — and still more 
rude to yourself! The last was the worst affront, in my 
opinion ! ” 

“I do not understand you,” she said, impatiently — “Your 
ideas of women are not those of the present day ” 

“ Thank God, they are not ! ” he replied — “ I am glad to be 
in that respect, old-fashioned! You say you do not under- 
stand me. Now that is not true! You do understand! You 
know very well that if I was rude in my unpremeditated 
speech, you were much more rude in your premeditated act !— 
that of deliberately spoiling your womanly self by doing what 
you know in your own heart was — will you forgive me the 
word ? — unwomanly ! ” 

Maryllia flushed red. 

“There is no harm in smoking,” she said, coldly; — “it 
is quite the usual thing nowadays for ladies to enjoy their 
cigarettes. Why should they not? It is nothing new. Spanish 
women have always smoked — Austrian and Italian women 
smoke freely without any adverse comment — in fact, the 
custom is almost universal. English women have been the 


God’s Good Man 373 

last, certainly, to adopt it — but then, England is always be- 
hind every country in everything ! ” 

She spoke with a hard flippancy, — and she knew it. Wal- 
den’s eyes darkened into a deeper gravity. 

“ Miss Y ancourt, this England of ours was once upon a 
time not behind, but before every nation in the whole world 
for the sweetness, purity and modesty of its women! That it 
has become one with less enlightened races in the deliberate 
unsexing and degradation of womanhood does not now, and 
will not in the future, redound to its credit. But I am pro- 
longing a discussion uselessly, — ” He waited a moment. “I 
shall trouble you no more with my opinions, believe me, — nor 
shall I ever again intrude my presence upon yourself or your 
guests,” — he continued, slowly, — “ As I have already said, I 
am sorry to have offended you , — but I am not sorry to have 
spoken my mind ! I do not care a jot what your friends from 
London think of me or say of me, — their criticism, good or 
bad, is to me a matter of absolute indifference — but I had 
thought — I had hoped ” 

He paused, — his voice for the moment failing him. 
Maryllia looked at his pale, earnest face, and a sudden sense 
of shamed compunction smote her heart. Her anger was 
fast cooling down, — and with the swift change of mood which 
made her so variable and bewitching, she said, more gently: 

“Well, Mr. Walden? You thought — you hoped?” 

“ That we might be friends,” — he answered, quietly — “ But 
I see plainly that is impossible ! ” 

She was silent. He stood very still, — his eyes wandering 
involuntarily to the painted beauty of ‘ Mary Elia Adelgisa de 
Yaignecourt,’ which he had admired and studied so often for 
many lonely years, and back again along the dimly lit gallery 
to that unveiled portrait of the young bride who never came 
home, the mother of the little proud creature who confronted 
him with such fairy-like stateliness and pretty assertion of her 
small self in combat against him, and upon whom his glance 
finally rested with a lingering sadness and pain. Then he 
said in a low tone: 

“Good-night, Miss Yancourt — good-bye!” 

At this a cloud of distress swept across her mobile features. 
“ There now ! ” she said to herself — “ He’s going away and 
he’ll never come to the Manor any more! I intended to make 
him quite ashamed of himself — and he isn’t a bit! So like a 
man! He’d rather die than own himself in the wrong — be- 
sides he isn't wrong, — oh dear! — he mustn’t go away in a 
huff!” 


374 


God’s Good Man 


And with a sudden yielding sweetness and grace of action 
of which she was quite unconscious, she extended her hands 
to him 

“Oh, no, Mr. Walden!” she said, earnestly — “I am not so 
angry as all that! Not good-bye!” 

Hardly knowing what he did, he took her offered hands and 
held them tenderly in his own. 

“Not good-bye!” she said, trembling a little, and flushing 
rose-red with a certain embarrassment — “ I don’t really want 
to quarrel — I don’t indeed ! We — we were getting on so nicely 
together — and it is so seldom one can get on with a clergy- 
man ! ” — here she began to laugh — “ But you know it was 
dreadful of you, wasn’t it ? — at any rate it sounded dreadful — 
when you said that English ladies never smoked— — ” 

“ Neither they do,”— -declared John resolutely, yet smilingly, 
“ Except by way of defiance ! ” 

She glanced up at him, — and the mirthful sparkle in his 
eyes was reflected in her own. 

“ You are very obstinate ! ” she said, as she drew her hands 
away from his — “ But I suppose you really do think smoking 
is wrong for women ? ” 

His heart was beating, his pulses thrilling under the in- 
fluence of her touch, her appealing look and sudden change of 
manner, — but he was not to be moved from his convictions, 
though all the world should swim round him in a glamour of 
blue eyes and gold hair. 

“ I think so, most certainly ! ” 

* But why?” 

He hesitalfed. 

“ Well, the act of smoking in itself is not wrong — but the 
associations of the habit are unfit for womanhood. I know 
very well that it has become usual in England for ladies to 
smoke, — most unfortunately ! — but there are many habits and 
customs in this country as well as in others, which, because 
they are habitual, are not the less, but rather the more, 
pernicious. I confess to a strong prejudice against smoking 
women.” 

“ But men smoke — why should not women smoke also ? ” 
persisted Maryllia. 

Walden heard this plea with smiling patience. 

“Men, — a very large majority of them too — habitually get 
drunk. Ho you think it justifiable for women to get drunk 
by way of following the men’s example ? ” 


God’s Good Man 375 

“ Why no, of course not ! ” — she answered quickly — “ But 
drunkenness is a vice ” 

“ So is smoking ! And it is quite as unhealthy as all vices 
are. There have been more addle-pated statesmen and poli- 
ticians in England since smoking became a daily necessity 
with them than were ever known before. I don’t believe in 
any human being who turns his brain into a chimney. And 
— pardon me! — when you deliberately put that cigarette in 
your mouth ” 

“Well!” and a mischievous dimple appeared on each soft 
cheek as she looked up — “ What did you think of me? Now 
be perfectly frank 1 ” 

“ I will I ” he said, slowly, with an earnest gravity darkening 
in his eyes — “ I should not be your true friend if I were 
otherwise ! But if I tell you what I thought — and what I may 
say I know from long experience all honest Englishmen think 
when they see a woman smoking — you must exonerate me 
in your mind and understand that my thoughts were only 
momentary. I knew that your better, sweeter self would soon 
reassert its sway I ” 

Her head drooped a little — she was quite silent. 

“ I thought,” — he went on, “ when I saw you actually smok- 
ing, that something strange and unnatural had happened to 
you! That you had become, in some pitiful way, a different 
woman to the one that walked with me, not so long ago, and 
showed me her old French damask roses blossoming in the 
border ! ” — he paused an instant, his voice faltering a little, — 
then he resumed, quietly and firmly — “and that you had, 
against all nature’s best intentions for you, descended to th® 
level of Lady Beaulyon ” 

She interrupted him by a quick gesture 

“ Eva Beaulyon is my friend, Mr. Walden ! ” 

“No — not your friend!”— he said steadily — “Forgive me! 
You asked me to speak frankly. She is a friend to none 
except those of her own particular class and type ” 

“To which I also belong,” — said Maryllia, with a sudden 
flash of returning rebellion — “ You know I do ! ” 

“I know you do noti” replied Walden, with some heat — 
“ And I thank God for it ! I know you are no more of her 
class and type than the wood lily is like the rank and 
poisonous marsh weed! Oh, child! — why do you wrong your- 
self! If I am too blunt and plain in what I say to you, let mi 
cease speaking — but if you ask me as your friend — as your 


God’s Good Man 


376 

minister ! ” — and he emphasised the word — " to tell you hon- 
estly my opinion, have patience with my roughness ! ” 

“ You are not rough,” she murmured, — and a little contrac- 
tion in her throat warned her of the possible rising of tears 
— “ But you are scarcely tolerant ! ” 

“I cannot be tolerant of the demoralisation of woman- 
hood ! ” — he said, passionately — " I cannot look on with an 
easy smile when I see the sex that should be the saving purity 
of the world, deliberately sinking itself by its own free will 
and choice into the mire of the vulgarest social vice, and 
parting with every redeeming grace, modesty and virtue that 
once made it sacred and beautiful! I am quite aware that 
there are many men who not only look on, but even encourage 
this world-wide debasement of women in order to bring them 
down on a par with themselves — but I am not one of these. I 
know that when women cease to be womanly, then the sorrows 
of the world, already heavy, will be doubled and trebled! 
When men come to be ashamed of their mothers — as many of 
them are to-day — there will be but little hope of good for fu- 
ture generations ! And the fact that there are many women of 
title and position like your guest. Lady Beaulyon, who delib- 
erately drag their husband’s honour through the dust and 
publicly glory in their own disgrace, does not make their 
crime the less, but rather the more criminal. You know this 
as well as I do ! You are not of Lady Beaulyon’s class or type 
* — if you were, I should not waste one moment of my time in 
your presence ! ” 

She gazed at him speechlessly. And now from the draw- 
ing room came the sound of Cicely’s voice, clear, powerful, 
and as sweet as legends tell us the voices of the angels are — 

"Luna fedel, tu chiama 

Col raggio ed io col suon, 

La fulgida mia dama 
Sul gotico veron! ” 

"You know,” he went on impetuously — "You know I told 
you before that I am not a society man. I said that if I came 
to dinner to meet your London friends, I should be very much 
in the way. You have found me so. A man of my age and 
of my settled habits and convictions ought to avoid society 
altogether. It is not possible for him to accommodate himself 
to it. For instance, — see how old-fashioned and strait-laced 
I am! — I wish I had been miles away from St. Rest before I 


God’s Good Man 


377 


had ever seen you smoking! It is a trifle, ~‘erhaps, — but it 
is one of those trifles which stick in the memory and embitter 
t,h a mind ! ” 

Around them the air seemed to break and divide into pul- 
sations of melody as Cicely sang: 

“Diro che sei d’argente 

D’opale, d ’am bra e d’or, 

Diro che incanti il vento, 

E che innamori i fior! ” 

“ You have seemed to me such an ideal of English woman- 
hood ! ” — he went on dreamily, hardly aware how far his words 
were carrying him — “ The sweet and fitting mistress of this 
dear old house, richly endowed as it is with noblest memories 
of the noble dead! Their proud and tender spirit has looked 
out of your eyes — or so I have fancied; — and you are natural- 
ly so kind and gentle — you have been so good to the people in 
the village, — they all love you — they all wish to think well of 
you; — for you have proved yourself practically as well as 
emotionally sympathetic to them. And, above all things, you 
have appeared so pre-eminently delicate and dainty in your 
tastes — so maidenly! — I should as soon have expected to see 
the Greek Psyche smoking as you ! ” 

She took a swift step towards him, and laid her hand on his 
arm. 

“ Can’t you forget it ? ” she said. 

He looked at her. Her eyes were humid, and her lips 
trembled a little. 

“Forget what?” he asked gently. 

“That I smoked!” 

He hesitated a second. 

“I will try!” 

“You see!” — went on Maryllia, coaxingly — “we shall have 
to live in the same parish, and we shall be compelled to meet 
each other often — and it would never do for you to be always 
thinking of that cigarette! Now would it? ” 

He was silent. The little hand on his arm gave an insistent 
pressure. 

“Of course when you conjure up such an awful picture as 
Psyche smoking, I know just how you feel about it ! ” And 
her eyes sparkled up at him with an arch look which, fortu- 
nately for his peace of mind, his own eyes did not meet, — “And 
naturally you must hold very strong opinions on the subject, 


God’s Good Man 


378 

— dreadfully strong! But then — nobody has erer thought me 

at all like Psyche before — so you so — you see! ” She 

paused, and John began to feel his heart beating uncomfort- 
ably fast. “It’s very nice to be compared to Psyche anyhow! 
—and of course she would look impossible and awful with a 
cigarette in her mouth! I quite understand! She couldn’t 
smoke, — she wouldn’t! — and — and — I won’t! I won’t really! 
You won’t believe me, I expect, — but I assure you, I never 
smoke! I only did it this evening, because, — because, — well! 
— because I thought I ought to defend my own sex against 
your censure — and also perhaps — perhaps out of a little bit of 
bravado! But, I’m sorry! There! Will you forgive me?” 

Nearly, very nearly, John lost his head. Maryllia had used 
the strongest weapon in all woman’s armoury, — humility, — and 
he went down before it, completely overwhelmed and con- 
quered. A swirl of emotion swept over him, — his brain grew 
dizzy, and for a moment he saw nothing in earth or heaven but 
the sweet upturned face, the soft caressing eye3, the graceful 
yielding form clad in its diaphanous draperies of jewelled 
gossamer, — then pulling himself together with a strong effort 
which made him well-nigh tremble, he took the small hand 
that lay in white confidence on his arm, and raised it to his 
lips with a grave, courtly, almost cold reverence. 

“ It is you to forgive me, Miss Vancourt!” — he said, un- 
steadily. “ For I am quite aware that I committed a breach 
of social etiquette at your table, — and — and — I know I have 
taken considerable liberty in speaking my mind to you as I 
have done. Even as your minister I fear I have overstepped 
my privileges ” 

“Oh, please don’t apologise!” said Maryllia, quickly 

“It’s all over, you know! You’ve said your say, and I’ve 
said mine — and I’m sure we both feel better for it. Don’t 
we?” 

John smiled, but his face was very pale, and his eyes were 
troubled. He was absorbed in the problem of his own strug- 
gling emotions — how to master them — how to keep them 
back from breaking into passionate speech, — and her bewitch- 
ing, .childlike air, halt penitent, half mischievous, was making 
sad havoc of his self-possession. 

“We are friends again now,”— she went on— “ And really, 
—really we must try and keep so ! ” 

This, with a quaint little nod of emphatic decision. 

Do you think it will be difficult ? ” he asked, looking at 


God’s Good Man 379 

ter more earnestly and tenderly than he himself was aware of. 

She laughed, and blushed a little. 

“I don’t know! — it may be!” she said — “You see you’ve 
twice ruffled me up the wrong way! I was very angry — oh, 
very angry indeed, when you coolly stopped the service be- 
cause we all came in late that Sunday, — and to-night I was 
very angry again ” 

“ But I was not angry! ” said John, simply — “ And it takes 
two to make a quarrel ! ” 

She peeped at him from under her long lashes and again 
the fleeting blush swept over her fair face. 

“I must go now!” — she said — “Won’t you come into the 
drawing-room? — just to hear Cicely sing at her very best?” 

“ Not to-night,” — he answered quickly — “ If you will excuse 
me ” 

“ Of course I will excuse you ! ” and she smiled — “ I know 
you don’t like company.” 

“ I very much dislike it ! ” he said, emphatically — “ But 
then I’m quite an unsociable person. You see I’ve lived alone 
here for ten years ” 

“ And you want to go on living alone for another ten years 
— I see!” said Maryllia — “Well! So you shall! I promise 
I won’t interfere ! ” 

He looked at her half appealingly. 

“ I don’t think you understand,” — he said, — then paused. 

“ Oh yes, I understand perfectly ! ” And she smiled ra- 
diantly. “You like to be left quite to yourself, with your 
books and flowers, and the bits of glass for the rose-window 
in the church. By the bye, I must help you with that rose- 
window! I will get you some genuine old pieces — and if I 
find any very rare specimens of mediaeval blue or crimson 
you’ll be so pleased that you’ll forget all about that cigarette 
— you know you will ! ” 

“Miss Vancourt,” — he began earnestly — “if you will only 

believe that it is because I think so highly of you because 

you have seemed to me so much above the mere society 
woman that I 1 ” 

“I know!” she said, very softly — “I quite see your point 
of view ! ” 

“ You are not of the modern world,” — he went on, slowly — 
“ Not in your heart — not in your real tastes and sentiments ; — 
not yet, though you may possibly be forced to become one 
with it after your marriage ” 

“ And when will that be ? ” she interrupted him smiling. 


380 God’s Good Man 

His clear, calm blue eyes rested upon her gravely and 
searchingly. 

“ Soon surely, — if report be true ! ” 

“ Really? Well, you ought to know whether the date has 
been fixed yet,” — she said, very demurely — “ Because, of 
course you'll have to marry me ! ” 

Something swayed and rocked in John’s brain, making the 
ground he stood upon swerve and seem unsteady. A wave 
of colour flushed his bronzed face up to the very roots of 
his grey-brown hair. Maryllia watched him with prettily 
critical interest, much as a kitten watches the rolling out of 
a ball of worsted on which it has just placed its little furry 
paw. Hurriedly he sought in his mind for something to say. 

“ I 1 don’t quite understand,” — he murmured. 

“ Don’t you ? ” and she smiled upon him blandly — “ Surely 
you wouldn’t expect me to be married in any church but 
yours, or by any clergyman but you ? ” 

“ Oh, I see ! ” And Maryllia mentally commented — ‘ So 
do I!’ — while he heaved a sigh unconsciously, but whether 
of relief or pain it was impossible to tell. Looking up, he 
met her eyes, — so deep and blue, so strangely compassionate 
and tender! A faint smile trembled on her lips. 

“Good-night, Mr. Walden!” 

“ Good-night ! ” he said ; then suddenly yielding to the 
emotion which mastered him, he made one swift step to he) 
side — “You will forgive me, I know! — you will think of me 
presently with kindness, and with patience for my old-fash- 
ioned ways! — and you will do me the justice to believe that if 
I seemed rude to your guests, as you say I was, it was all for 
your sake! — because I thought you deserved more respect 
from them than that they should smoke in your presence, — 
and also, because I felt — I could not help feeling that if your 
father had been alive he would not have allowed them to do 
so, — he would have been too precious of you, — too careful 
that nothing of an indecorous or unwomanly nature should 

ever be associated with you; and and 1 spoke as I 

did because it seemed to me that someone should speak! — • 
someone of years and authority, who from the point of experi- 
ence alone, might defend you from the contact of modern 

vulgarity ; — so so 1 said the first words that came to me 

just as your father might have said them! yes! 

just as your father might have spoken, — for you — you know 
you seem little more than a child to me ! — I am so much older 
than you are, God help me ! ” 


God’s Good Man 


381 

Stooping, be caught her hands and kissed them with a 
passion of which he was entirely unconscious, — then turned 
swiftly from her and was gone. 

She stood where he had left her, trembling a little, but with 
a startled radiance in her eyes that made them doubly 
beautiful. She was pale to the lips; — her hands, — the hands 
he had kissed, were burning. Suddenly, on an impulse which 
she could not have explained to herself, she ran swiftly out 
of the picture-gallery and into the hall where, — as the great 
oaken door stood open to the summer night, — she could see 
the whole flower-garlanded square of the Tudor court, gleam- 
ing like polished silver in the intense radiance of the moon. 
John Walden was walking quickly across it, — she watched him, 
and saw him all at once pause near the old stone dial which 
at this season of the year was almost hidden by the clamber- 
ing white roses that grew around it. He took off his hat and 
passed his hand over his brows with an air of dejection and 
fatigue, — the moonlight fell full on the clear contour of his 
features, — and she drew herself and her sparkling draperies 
well back into the deep shadow of the portal lest he should 
catch a glimpse of her, and, perhaps, — so seeing her, return — 
‘‘ And that would never do ! ” she thought, with a little 
tremor of fear running through her which was unaccountably 
delicious ; — “ I’m sure it wouldn’t ! — not to-night ! ” 

The air was very warm and sultry, — all the windows of the 
Manor were thrown open for coolness, — and through those 
of the drawing-room came the lovely vibrations of Cicely’s 
pure fresh voice. She was singing an enchanting melody on 
which some words of Julian Adderley’s, simple and quaint, 
without having any claim to particular poetic merit, floated 
clearly with distinct and perfect enunciation — 

“A little rose on a young rose-tree 
Shed all its crimson blood for me. 

Drop by drop on the dewy grass, 

Its petals fell, and its life did pass; 

Oh little rose on the young rose-tree , 

Why did you shed your blood for me? 

"A nightingale in a tall pine-tree 
Broke its heart in a song for me, 

Singing, with moonbeams around it spread, 

It fluttered, and fell at my threshold, dead;— 

Oh nightingale in the tall pine-tree, 

Why did you break your heart for me f 


God’s Good Man 


382 


** A lover of ladies, bold and free, 

Challenged the world to a fight for me. 

But I scorn’d his love in a foolish pride, 

And, sword in hand, he fighting died! 

Oh lover of ladies , bold and free, 

Why did you lose your life for me?” 

And again, with plaintive insistence, the last two lines were 
repeated, ringing out on the deep stillness of the summer 
night — ■ 


“ Oh lover of ladies, bold and free, 

Why did you lose your life for me f” 

The song ceased with a clash of chords. It was followed 
by a subdued clapping of hands, — a pause of silence — and 
then a renewed murmur of conversation. Walden looked up 
as if suddenly startled from a reverie, and resumed his quick 
pace across the courtyard, — and Maryllia, seeing him go, ad- 
vanced a little more into the gleaming moonlight to follow 
him with her eyes till he should quite disappear. 

“ Upon my word, a very quaint little comedy ! 99 said a coldly 
mocking voice behind her — •“ A modern Juliet gazing pathetic- 
ally after the retiring form of a somewhat elderly clerical 
Romeo! Let me congratulate you. Miss Maryllia, on your 
newest and most brilliant achievement, — the conquest of a 
country parson ! It is quite worthy of you ! 99 

And turning, she confronted Lord Roxmoutk. 


XXIV 


JJiOR a moment they looked at each other. The smile on 
Roxmouth’s face widened. 

“ Come, come, Maryllia ! ” he said, easily — “ Don’t be fool- 
ish ! The airs of a tragedy queen do not suit you. I assure 
> you I haven’t the least objection to your amusing yourself 
with a parson, if you like! The conversation in the picture- 
gallery just now was quite idyllic — all about a cigarette and 
Psyche! Really it was most absurd! — and the little sermon 
of the enamoured clergyman to his pretty penitent was as 
unique as it was priggish. I’m sure you must have been vast- 
ly entertained! And the final allusion he made to his age — 
that was a masterstroke of pathos! — or bathos? Which? 
Du sublime au ridicule il n V a qu’un pas, Madame ! ” 

Her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon him. 

“ So you listened ! ” she said. 

“ Naturally! One always listens to a comedy if it is played 
well. I’ve been listening all the evening. I’ve listened to your 
waif and stray, Cicely Bourne, and am perfectly willing to 
admit that she is worth the training you are giving her. It’s 
the first time I’ve heard her sing to advantage. I’ve listened 
to Eva Beaulyon’s involved explanation of a perfectly un- 
workable scheme for the education of country yokels (who 
never do anything with education when they get it), on which 
she is going to extract twenty thousand pounds for herself 
from the pockets of her newest millionaire-victim. I’ve lis- 
tened to the Bludlip Courtenay woman’s enthusiastic descrip- 
tion of a new specific for the eradication of wrinkles and 
crowsfeet. I’ve listened to that old bore Sir Morton Pippitt, 
and to the afflicting county gossip of the lady in green, — 
Miss Ittlethwaite is her name, I believe. And, getting tired 
of these things, I strolled towards the picture-gallery, and 
hearing your delightful voice, listened there. I confess I 
heard more than I expected ! ” 

Without a word in response, she turned from him and 
began to move away. He stretched out a hand and caught 
her sleeve. 


3«3 


God’s Good Man 


384 

“ Maryllia, wait ! I must speak to you — and I may as well 
say what I have to say now and get it over.” 

She paused. Lifting her eyes she glanced at him with a 
look of utter scorn and contempt. He laughed. 

“ Come out into the moonlight ! ” — he said — “ Come and 
walk with me in this romantic old courtyard. It suits you, 
and you suit it. You are very pretty, Maryllia! May I — 
notwithstanding the parson — smoke ? ” 

She said nothing. Drawing a leather case from his pocket, 
he took a cigar out and lit it. 

“ Silence gives consent,” — he went on — “ Besides I’m sure 
you don’t mind. You know plenty of men who can never 
talk comfortably without puffing smoke in between whiles. 
I’m one of that sort. Don’t look at me like Cleopatra deprived 
of Marc Antony. Be reasonable! I only want to say a few 
plain matter-of-fact words to you ” 

“ Say them then as quickly as possible, please,” — she 
replied— “ I am not a good listener ! ” 

“ No ? Now I should have thought you were, judging by 
the patience with which you endured the parson’s general 
discursiveness. What a superb night ! ” He stepped from 
the portal out on the old flagstones of the courtyard. “ Take 
just one turn with me, Maryllia ! ” 

. Quietly, and with an air of cold composure she came to 
him, and walked slowly at his side. He looked at her covertly, 
yet critically. 

“I won’t make love to you,” — he said presently, with a 
smile — “ because you tell me you don’t like it. I will merely 
put a case before you and ask for your opinion! Have I 
your permission ? ” 

She bent her head slightly. Her throat was dry, — her 
heart was beating painfully, — she knew Roxmouth’s crafty 
and. treacherous nature, and her whole soul sickened as she 
realised that now he could, if he chose, drag the name of 
John Walden through a mire of social mud, and hold it up 
to. ridicule among his own particular ‘ set,’ who would cer- 
tainly lose no time in blackening it with their ever-ready tar- 
brush. And it was all through her — all through her! How 
would she ever forgive herself if his austere and honourable 
reputation were touched in ever so slight a degree by a breath 
of scandal? Unconsciously, she clasped her little hands and 
wrung them hard — Roxmouth saw the action, and quickly 
fathomed the inward suffering it indicated. 

“You know my dearest ambition,” — he went on, — “and 


God’s Good Man 


385 


I need not emphasise it. It is to call you my wife. If you 
consent to marry me, you take at once a high position in the 
society to which you naturally belong. But you tell me I 
am detestable to you — and that you would rather die than 
accept me as a husband. I confess I do not understand your 
attitude, — and, if you will allow me to say so, I hardly think 
you understand it yourself. You are in a state of uncertainty 1 
— most women live always in that state ; — and your vacillating 
soul like a bewildered butterfly — you see I am copying the 
clerical example by dropping into poetry! — and a butterfly, 
not a cigarette, is I believe the correct emblem of Psyche, — ” 
here he took a whiff at his cigar, and smiled pleasantly — “ your 
soul, I repeat, like a bewildered butterfly, has lighted by chance 
on a full-flowering parson. The flight — the pause on that ma- 
turely-grown blossom of piety, is pardonable, — but I cannot 
contemplate with pleasure the idea of your compromising 
your name with that of this sentimental middle-aged indi- 
vidual who, though he may be an excellent Churchman, would 
make rather a grotesque lover ! ” 

She remained silent. Glancing sideways at her, he won- 
dered whether it was the moonlight that made her look so set 
and pale. 

“ But I said I would put a case before you,” — he continued, 
u and I will. Here are you, — of an age to be married. 
Here am I, — anxious to marry you. We are neither #f us 
growing younger — and delay seems foolish. I offer you all I 
am worth in the world — myself, my name and my position. 
You have refused me a score of times, and I am not discour- 
aged — you refuse me still, and I am not baffled. But I ask 
why? I am not deformed or idiotic. I would try to make 
you happy. A woman is best when she has entirely her own 
way, — I would let you have yours. You would be free to 
follow your own whims and caprices. Provided you gave me 
lawful heirs, I should ask no more of you. No reasonable 
man ought to ask more of any reasonable woman. Life could 
be made very enjoyable to us both, with a little tact and sense 
on either side. I should amuse myself in the world, and so I 
hope, would you. We understand modern life and appreciate 
its conveniences. The freedom of the matrimonial state is 
one of those conveniences, of which I am sure we should 
equally take advantage.” 

He puffed at his cigar for a few minutes complacently. 

“ You profess to hate me,”— he went on — “ Again I ask, 
why ? You tell your aunt that you want to be 1 loved.’ You 


God’s Good Man 


386 

consider love the only lasting good of life. Well, you have 
your desire. 1 love you ! ” 

She raised her eyes, — and then suddenly laughed. 

“You!” she said — “You ‘love’ me? It must be a very 
piecemeal sort of love, then, for I know at least five women 
to whom you have said the same thing ! ” 

He was in nowise disconcerted. 

“ Only five ! ” he murmured lazily — “ Why not ten — or 
twenty? The more the merrier! Women delight in bragging 
of conquests they have never made, as why should they not? 
Lying comes so naturally to them ! But I do not profess to 
be a saint, — I daresay I have said * 1 love you * to a hundred 
women in a certain fashion, — but not as I say it to you. 
When I say it to you, I mean it.” 

“Mean what?” she asked. 

“ Love.” 

She stopped in her walk and faced him. 

“ When a man loves a woman — really loves her,” — she said, 
“Does he persecute her? Does he compromise her in so- 
ciety? Does he try to scandalise her among her friends? 
Does he whisper her name away on a false rumour, and ac- 
cuse her of running after him for his title, while all the time 
he knows it is he himself that is running after her money? 
Does he make her life a misery to her, and leave her no peace 
anywhere, not even in her own house? Does he spy upon her, 
and set others to do the same? — does he listen at doors 
and interrogate servants as to her movements — and does he 
altogether play the dastardly traitor to prove his c love 9 ? ” 

Her voice shook — her eyes were ablaze with indignation. 
Boxmouth flicked a little ash off his cigar. 

“Why, of course not!” he replied — “But who does these 
dreadful things? Are they done at all except in your imagi- 
nation ? ” 

“You do them!” said Maryllia, passionately — “ And you 
have always done them! When I tell you once and for all 
that I have given up every chance I ever had of being my 
aunt’s heiress — that I shall never be a rich woman, — and that 
I would far rather die a beggar than be your wife, will you not 
understand me ? — will you not leave me alone ? ” 

He looked at her with quizzical amusement. 

“ Do you really want to be left alone ? ” he asked — “ Or in a 
< solitude a deux 9 — with the parson ? ” 

She was silent, though her silence cost her an effort. But 
she knew that the least word she might say concerning Walden 


God’s Good Man 


387 


would be wilfully misconstrued. She knew that Roxmouth 
was waiting for her to burst out with some indignant denial of 
his suggestions — something that he might twist and turn in 
his own fashion and repeat afterwards to all his and her ac- 
quaintances. She cared nothing for herself, but she was full 
of dread lest Walden’s name should be bandied up and down 
on the scurrilous tongues of that ‘upper class’ throng, who, 
because they spend their lives in nothing nobler than political 
intrigue and sensual indulgence, are politely set aside as froth 
and scum by the saner, cleaner world, and classified as the 
* Smart Set.’ Roxmouth watched her furtively. His clear- 
cut face, white skin and sandy hair shone all together with an 
oily lustre in the moonlight; — there was a hard cold gleam in 
his eyes. 

“ It would be a pretty little story for the society press,” he 
said, after a pause — “ How the bewitching Maryllia Yancourt 
resigned the brilliancy of her social life for a dream of love 
with an elderly country clergyman! By Heaven! No one 
would believe it! But,”' — and he waited a minute, then con- 
tinued — “It’s a story that shall never be told so far as I 
am concerned — if — ” He broke off, and looked meditatively 
at the end of his cigar. “There is always an ‘if’ — unfor- 
tunately ! ” 

Maryllia smiled coldly. 

“ That is a threat,” — she said — “ But it does not affect me I 
Nothing that you can do or say will make me consent to 
marry you. You have slandered me already — you can slander 
me again for all I care. But I will never be your wife.” 

“You have said so before,” — he observed, placidly — “ And 
I have put the question many times — why ? ” 

She looked at him steadily. 

“Shall I tell you?” 

“ Do ! I shall appreciate the favour ! ” 

For a moment she hesitated. A great pain and sorrow cloud- 
ed her eyes. 

“ No woman marries a leper by choice ! ” — she said at last, 
slowly. 

He glanced at her, — then shrugged his shoulders. 

“You talk in parables. Pardon me if I am too dull to 
understand you ! ” 

“ You understand me well enough,” — she answered — “ But 
if you wish it, I will speak more plainly. I dream of love ” 

“ Most women do ! ” he interrupted her, smilingly — “ And I 


God’s Good Man 


388 

am sure you dream charmingly. But is a middle-aged parson 
part of the romantic vision ? ” 

She paid no heed to this sarcasm. She had moved a pace 
or two away from him, and now stood, her head slightly 
uplifted, her eyes turned wistfully towards the picturesque 
gables of the Manor outlined clearly in the moon against the 
dense night sky. 

“ I dream of love ! ”■ — she repeated softly, — while he, smoking 
tranquilly, and looking the very image of a tailor’s model in 
his faultlessly cut dress suit, spotless shirt front, and aggres- 
sively neat white tie, studied her face, her figure and her 
attitude with amused interest — “But my dream is not what 
the world offers me as the dream’s realisation! The love that 
I mean — the love that I seek — the love that I want — the love 
that I will have,” — and she raised her hand involuntarily with 
a slight gesture which almost implied a command — “ or else 
go loveless all my days — is an honest love, — loyal, true and 
pure ! — and strong enough to last through this life and all the 
lives to come ! ” 

“ If there are any ! ” — interpolated Roxmouth, blandly. 

She looked at him, — and a vague expression of something 
like physical repulsion flitted across her face. 

“ It is no use talking to you,” — she said — “ For you believe 
in nothing — not even in God! You are a man of your own 
making — you are not a man in the true sense of manhood. 
How can you know anything of love? You will not find it in 
the low haunts of Paris where you are so well known, — where 
your name is a byword as that of an English ‘ milord’ who 
degrades his Order ! ” 

“What do you know of the low haunts of Paris?” he 
queried with a cold laugh — “ Is Louis Gigue your in- 
formant ? ’ 

“I daresay Louis Gigue knows as much of you as most 
men do,” — she replied, quietly — “But I never speak of you 
to him. Indeed, I never speak of you at all unless you are 
spoken of, and not always then. You do not interest me 
sufficiently ! ” 

She moved towards the house. He followed her. 

“Your remarks have been somewhat rambling and dis- 
jointed,” — he said — “ But essentially feminine, after all. And 
they merely tend to one thing — that you are still an untamed 
shrew ! ” 

She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes 


God’s Good Man 389 

gleamed in the moonlight, — a faint smile curved ner pretty 
mouth. 

“ If I am, it will need someone braver than you are to tame 
me ! ” she said — “ A trickster is always a coward ! ” 

With an angry exclamation he flung away the end of his 
cigar, — it fell into a harmless bed of mignonette and seared 
the sweet blossom, burning . redly in the green like a wicked 
eye. And then he caught her hand firmly and held it grasped 
as in a vice. 

“You insult me!” he said, thickly — “ And I shall not for- 
get it! You talk as a child talks — though you are no child! 
You are a woman of the world — you have travelled — you have 
had experience — and you know men. You are perfectly aware 
that the sentimental ‘love’ you speak of exists nowhere 
except in poems and story-books — you know that no sane man 
alive would tie himself to one woman save for the law’s de- 
mand that his heirs shall be lawfully born. You are no 
shrinking maid in her teens, that you should start and recoil 
or blush at the truth of the position, and it is the merest af- 
fectation on your part to talk about ‘ love lasting forever/ for 
you are perfectly aware that it cannot last very long over the 
honeymoon. The natural state of man is polygamous. Eng- 
lishmen are the same as Turks or Hottentots in this respect, 
except for the saving grace of hypocrisy, which is the chief 
prop of European civilisation. If it were not for hypocrisy, 
we should all be savages as utterly and completely as in 
primaeval days! You know all this as well as I do — and yet 
you feign to desire the impossible, while all the time you play 
the fool with a country parson ! But I’ll make you pay for it 
• — by Heaven, I will! You scorn me and my name — you call 
me a social leper ” 

“You are one!” she said, wrenching her hand from his 
clasp — “ And what is more, you know it, and you glory in it ! 
Who are your associates ? Men who are physically or morally 
degenerate — women who, so long as their appetites are satis- 
fied, seek nothing more! You play the patron to a certain 
literary ‘set’ who produce books unfit to be read by any 
decent human being, — you work your way, by means of your 
title and position, through society, contaminating everything 
you touch! You contaminate me by associating my name 
with yours! — and my aunt helps you in the wicked scheme t 
I came here to my own home — to the house where my father 
died — thinking that perhaps here at least I should find peace,” 
— and her voice shook as with tears — “ that here, at least, the 


390 


God’s Good Man 


old walls might give me shelter and protection! — but even 
here you followed me with your paid spy, Marius Longford — 
and I have found myself surrounded by your base tools, al- 
most despite myself ! But even if you try to hound me into , 
my grave, I will never marry you ! I would rather die a hun- 
dred times over than be your wife ! ” 

His face flushed a dark red, and he suddenly made as 
though he would seize her in his arms. She re- 
treated swiftly. 

“ Do not touch me ! ” she said, in a low, strained voice — • 
“ It will be the worse for you if you do ! 99 

“ The worse for me — or for you ? 99 he muttered fiercely, — ■ 
then regaining his composure, he burst into an angry laugh. 
“Bah! You are nothing but a woman! You fling aside 
what you have, and pine for what you have not! The old, 
old story ! The eternal feminine ! 99 

She made no reply, but moved on towards the house. 

“ Quel ravissement de la lune ! 99 exclaimed a deep gut- 
tural voice at this juncture, and Louis Gigue came out from 
the dark embrasure of the Manor’s oaken portal into the full 
splendour of the moonlight — “Et la belle Mademoiselle Van- 
court is ze adorable fantome of ze night! Et milord Box- 
mouth ze what-you-call ? — ze gnome! — ze shadow of ze 
lumiere! Ha-ha! C’est joli, zat little chanson of ze little 
rose-tree! Ze music, c’est une inspiration de Cicely — and 
ze words are not so melancolique as ze love-songs made 
ordinairement en Angleterre ! Oui — oui ! — c’est joli ! 99 

He turned his shrewd old face up to the sky, and blinked 
at the dim stars, — there was a smile under his grizzled 
moustache. He had interrupted the conversation between 
his hostess and her objectionable wooer precisely at the right 
moment, and he knew it. Boxmouth’s pale face grew a shade 
paler, but he made a very good assumption of perfect com- 
posure, and taking out his case of cigars offered one to Gigue, 
who cheerfully accepted it. Then he lit one for himself with 
a hand that trembled slightly. Maryllia, pausing on the step 
of the porch as she was about to enter, turned her head back 
towards him for a moment. 

“ Are you staying long at Badsworth Hall ? 99 she asked. 

“About a fortnight or three weeks,” — he answered care- 
lessly, “ Mr. Longford is doing some literary work and needs 
the quiet of the country — and Sir Morton Pippitt is good 
enough to wish us to extend our visit.” 

He smiled as he spoke. She said nothing further, but 


God’s Good Man 


391 


slowly passed into the house. Gigue at once began to walk 
up and down the courtyard, smoking vigorously, and talking 
volubly concerning the future of his pupil Cicely Bourne, and 
the triumph she would make some two years hence as a ‘ prima 
donna assoluta,’ far greater than Patti ever was in her palm- 
iest days, — and ftoxmouth was perforce compelled, out of 
civility, as well as immediate diplomacy, to listen to him 
with some show of interest. 

“Do you think an artistic career a good thing for a 
woman ? ” he asked, with a slight touch of satire in his voice 
as he put the question. 

Gigue glanced up at him quickly and comprehendingly. 

“Ah, bah! Pour une femme il n’y’a qu’une chose— 
F Amour ! ” he replied — “ Mais — au meme temps — l’Art c’est 
mieux qu’un mariage de convenance ! ” 

Roxmouth shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, smiled 
tolerantly, and changed the subject. 

That same evening, when everyone had retired to bed, and 
when Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay was carefully taking off her 
artistically woven 4 real hair ’ eyebrows and putting them by 
in a box for the night, Lady Beaulyon, arrayed in a marvellous 
4 deshabille ’ of lace and pale blue satin, which would have 
been called by the up-to-date modiste 4 a dream of cerulean 
sweetness,’ came into her room with dejection visibly written 
on her photographically valuable features. 

“ It’s all over, Pipkin ! ” she said with a sigh, — Pipkin 
was the poetic pet-name by which the 4 beauty 9 of the press- 
par agraphist addressed her Ever- Youthful friend, — “ We shall 
never get a penny out of Mrs. Fred Yancourt. Maryllia is a 
mule ! She has told me as plainly as politeness will allow her 
to do that she does not intend to know either you or me any 
more after we have left here — and you know we’re off to-mor- 
row. So to-morrow ends the acquaintance. That girl’s 
4 cheek ’ is beyond words ! One would think she was an 
empress, instead of being a little bounder with only an old 
Manor-house and certainly not more than two thousand a 
year in her own right!” 

4 Pipkin ’ stared. That she was destitute of eyebrows, save 
for a few iron-grey bristles where eyebrows should have been, 
and that her beautiful Titian hair was lying dishevelled on 
her dressing table, were facts entirely lost sight of in the 
stupefaction of the moment. 

“Maryllia Vancourt does not intend to know US!” she 
ejaculated, — 44 Nonsense, Eva ! The girl must be mad ! ” 


392 


God’s Good Man 


“ Mad or sane, that’s what she says,” — and Eva Beaulyon 
turned away from the spectacle of her semi-bald and eyebrow- 
less confidante with a species of sudden irritation and re- 
pulsion — “ She declares we are in the pay of her aunt and 
Lord Koxmouth. So we are, more or less! And what does 
it matter! Money must be had — and whatever way there 
is of getting it should be taken. I laughed at her, and told 
her quite frankly that I would do anything for money, — 
flatter a millionaire one day and cut him the next, if I could 
get cheques for doing both. How in the world should I get 
on without money ? — or you either ? But she is an incorrigible 
little idiot — talks about honour and principle exactly like 
some mediaeval story-book. She declares she will never speak 
to either of us again after we’ve gone away to-morrow. Of 
course we can easily reverse the position and turn the tables 
upon her by saying we will not speak to her again. That 
will be easy enough — for I believe she’s after the parson.” 

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay’s eyes lightened with malignity. 

“ What, that man who objected to our smoke ? ” 

Lady Beaulyon nodded. 

“ And I think Koxmouth sees it ! ” — she added. 

‘Pipkin’ looked weirdly meditative and curiously wizened 
for a moment. Then she suddenly laughed and clapped her 
hands. 

“ That will do ! ” she exclaimed — “ That’s quite good 
enough for US! Mrs. Fred will pay for that information! 
Don’t you see?” 

Lady Beaulyon shook her head. 

“ Don’t you? Well, wait till we get back to town!” — and 
■‘Pipkin’ took up her false hair and shook it gently, as she 
spoke — “ We can do wonders — wonders, I tell you, Eva ! 
And till we go, we’ll be as nice to the girl as we can, — go off 
good friends and all that sort of thing — tell her how much 
we’ve enjoyed ourselves — thank her profusely, — and then once 
away we’ll tell Mrs. Fred all about John Walden, and leave 
her to do as she likes with the story. That will be quite 
enough! Jf Maryllia has any sneaking liking for the man, 
fihe’ll do anything to save his name if she doesn’t care about 
saving her own ! ” 

“ Oh, I see now I ” and Lady Beaulyon’s eyes sparkled up 
with a gleam of malice — “ Yes — I quite understand ! ” 

* Pipkin ’ danced about the room in ecstasy, — she was half 
undressed for the night, and showed a pair of exceedingly thin 
$>ld legs under an exceedingly short young petticoat. 


God’s Good Man 


393 


u Mary Ilia Vancourt and a country parson!” she exclaimed, 
,l The whole thing is too delicious! Go to bed, Eva! Get 
your beauty sleep or you’ll have ever so many more wrinkles 
than you need! Good-night, dearest! If Maryllia declines to 
know us , we shall soon find excellent reasons for not knowing 
her! Good-night ! ” 

With a shrill little laugh, the lady kissed her dear friend 
affectionately — and if the caress was not returned with very 
great fervour, it may be presumed that this coldness was due 
more to the unlovely impression created by the night £ toilette 9 
of the Ever- Youthful one, than anything else. Anyway the 
two social schemers parted on the most cordial terms, and 
retired to their several couches with an edifying sense of 
virtue pervading them both morally and physically. 

And while they and others in the Manor were sleeping, 
Maryllia lay broad awake, watching the moonbeams creeping 
about her room like thin silver threads, interlacing every object 
in a network of pale luminance, — and listening to the slow 
tick-tock of the rusty timepiece in the courtyard which said, 
* Give all — take nothing — give — all — take — no — thing ! ’ — with 
such steady and monotonous persistence. She was sad yet 
happy, — perplexed, yet peaceful ; — she had decided on her own 
course of action, and though that course involved some imme- 
diate vexation and inconvenience to herself, she was satisfied 
that it was the only one possible to adopt under the irritating 
circumstances by which she was hemmed in and surrounded. 

“ It will be best for everyone concerned,” — she said, with a 
sigh — “ Of course it upsets all my plans and spoils my whole 
summer, — but it is the only thing to do — the wisest and safest, 
both for — for Mr. Walden — and for me. I should be a very 
poor friend if I could not sacrifice myself and my own pleasure 
to save him from possible annoyance, — and though it is a little 
hard — yes ! — it is hard ! — it can’t be helped, and I must go 
through with it. ‘ Home, Home, sweet Home ! ’ Yes — dear 
old Home! — you shall not be darkened by a shadow of deceit 
or treachery if I can prevent it ! — and for the present, my way 
is the only way ! ” 

One or two tears glittered on her long lashes when she at 
last fell into a light slumber, and the old pendulum’s rusty 
voice croaking out : ‘ Give all — take no — thing ’ echoed 

hoarsely through her dreams like a harsh command which it 
was more or less difficult to obey. But life, as we all know, is 
not made up of great events so much as of irritating trifles, — 
poor, wretched, apparently insignificant trifles, which, never- 


394 


God’s Good Man 


theless do so act upon our destinies sometimes as to put 
everything out of gear, and make havoc and confusion where 
there should be nothing but peace. It was the merest trifle 
that Sir Morton Pippitt should have brought his ‘ distinguished 
guests/ including Marius Longford, to see John Walden’s 
church — and also have taken him to visit Maryllia in her own 
home ; — it was equally trifling that Longford, improving on the t 
knightly Bone-Melter’s acquaintance, should have chosen to 
import Lord Roxmouth into the neighbourhood through the 
convenient precincts of Badsworth Hall; — it was a trifle that 
Maryllia should have actually believed in the good faith of two 
women who had formerly entertained her at their own houses 
and whose hospitality she was anxious to return ; — and it was 
a trifle that John Walden should, so to speak, have made a 
conventionally social ‘slip’ in his protest against smoking 

women; but there the trifles stopped. Maryllia knew well 

enough that only the very strongest feeling, the very deepest 
and most intense emotion could have made the quiet, self- 
contained * man o’ God ’ as Mrs. Spruce called him, speak to 
her as he had done, — and she also knew that only the most 
bitter malice and cruel under-intent to do mischief could have 
roused Roxmouth, usually so coldly self-centred, to the white 
heat of wrath which had blazed out of him that evening. 
Between these two men she stood — a quite worthless object of 
regard, so she assured herself, — through her, one of them was 
like to have his name torn to shreds in the foul mouths of 
up-to-date salacious slanderers, — and likewise through her, the 
other was prepared and ready to commit himself to any kind 
of lie, any sort of treachery, in order to gain his own interested 
ends. Small wonder that tears rose to her eyes even in sleep 
— and that in an uneasy and confused dream she saw John 
Walden standing in his garden near the lilac-tree from which 
he had once given her a spray, — and that he turned upon her 
a sad white face, furrowed with pain and grief, while he said in 
weary accents — “Why have you troubled my peace? I was 
so happy till you came ! ” And she cried out — “ Oh, let me 
go away! No one wants me! I have never been loved much 
in all my life — but I am loving enough not to wish to give 
pain to my friends— let me go away from my dear old home 
and never come back again, rather than make you wretched ! ” 

And then with a cry she awoke, shivering and half-sobbing, to 
feel herself the loneliest of little mortals — to long impotently 
for her father’s touch, her father’s kiss, — to pray to that dimly- 
wdiant phantom of her mother’s loveliness which was pictured 


God's Good Man 


395 


on her brain, and anon to stretch out her pretty rounded arms 
with a soft cry of mingled tenderness and pain — “ Oh, I am 
so sorry! — so sorry for him! I know he is unhappy! — and 
it’s all my fault! I wish 1 wish ” 

But what she wished she could not express, even to herself. 
Her sensitive nature was keenly alive to every slight impres- 
sion of kindness or of coldness; — and the intense longing 
for love, which had been the pulse of her inmost being since her 
earliest infancy, and which had filled her with such passionate 
devotion to her father that her grief at his loss had been 
almost abnormally profound and despairing, made her feel 
poignantly every little incident which emphasised, or seemed 
to emphasise, her own utter loneliness in the world; and she 
was just now strung up to such a nervous tension, that she 
would almost have consented to wed Lord Roxmouth if by so 
doing she could have saved any possible mischief occurring 
to John Walden through Roxmouth’s malignancy. But the 
shuddering physical repulsion she felt at the bare contempla- 
tion of such a marriage was too strong for her. 

“ Anything but that ! ” — she said to herself, with something 
of a prayer — “ O dear God ! — anything but that ! ” 

Sometimes God hears these little petitions which are not 
of the orthodox Church. Sometimes, as it seems, by a strange 
chance, the cry of a helpless and innocent soul does reach that 
vast Profound where all the secrets of life and destiny lie hid- 
den in mysterious embryo. And thus it happens that across the 
din and bustle of our petty striving and restless disquietudes 
there is struck a sudden great silence, by way of answer, — 
sometimes it is the silence of Death which ends all sorrow, — 
sometimes it is the sweeter silence of Love which turns sorrow 
into joy. 

Next day all the guests at the Manor had departed with 
the exception of three — Louis Gigue, and the 1 Sisters Gemini/ 
namely. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby. With much gush 
and gratitude for a ‘ charming stay — a delightful time ! ’ Lady 
Beaulyon and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay took leave of their * dear 
Maryllia/ who received their farewells and embraces with an 
irresponsively civil coldness. Lord Charlemont and Mr. 
Bludlip Courtenay 4 motored ’ to London, undertaking with 
each other to keep up a speed of fifty miles an hour, provided 
there were not too many hills and not too much 1 slowing 
down 9 for the benefit of unexpected policemen round corners. 
And at sunset, a pleasant peace and stillness settled on tho 
Manor grounds, erstwhile disturbed by groups of restless 


God’s Good Man 


396 

persons walking aimlessly to and fro, — persons who picked 
flowers merely to throw them away again, and played tennis hnd 
croquet only to become quarrelsome and declare that the 
weather was much too hot for games. Everybody that was 
anybody had gone their ways, — and within her own domicile 
Mrs. Spruce breathed capaciously and freely, and said in con- 
fidence to the cook and to Primmins : 

“ Thank the Lord an’ His mercies, that’s all over ! An * from 
what I hears. Miss Maryllia won’t be wantin’ no more London 
folks for a goodish bit o’ time, an’ we’ll all ’ave peace to turn 
round an’ look at ourselves an’ find out whether we’re sane or 
silly, for the two old leddies what is stayin’ on give no trouble 
at all, an’ that Mr. Gigg don’t care what he gets, so long as he 
can bang away on the pianner an’ make Miss Cicely sing, an’ 
I will own she do sing lovely like the angels in a ’evenly ’ost, 
but there ! — 1 don’t want no more company, for what with 
French maids an’ valets, all talkin’ the wickedest stuff I ever 
heard about the ways an’ doins o’ their masters an’ missises in 
London, Pm downright glad to be rid o’ the whole lot! For 
do what we will, there is limits to patience, an’ a peaceful life 
is what suits me best not knowin’ for the past three weeks 
whether my ’ead or my ’eels is uppermost with the orderin’ an’ 
messin’ about, though I will say Miss Maryllia knows what’s 
what, an’ ain’t never in a fuss nor muddle, keepin’ all wages an’ 
bills paid reg’lar like a hofiice clerk, mebbe better, for one 
never knows whether clerks pays out what they’re told or keeps 
some by in their own pockets, honesty not bein’ always policy 
with the likes o’ they. Anyway ’ere we are all alive an’ none 
the worse for the bustle, which is a mercy, an’ now mebbe 
we’ll have time to think a bit as we go, an’ stop worrittin’ over 
plates an’ dishes an’ glass an’ silver, which, say what we like, 
do sit on one like a burden when there’s a many to serve. A 
bit o’ quiet ’ull do us all good ! ” 

The * quiet ’ she thus eulogised was to be longer and lonelier 
than she imagined, but of this she knew nothing. The 
whole house was delightfully tranquil after the departure of 
the visitors, and the spirit of a grateful repose seemed to have 
imparted itself to its few remaining occupants. Louis Gigue 
played wonderful improvisations on the piano that evening, 
and Cicely sang so brilliantly and ravishingly that had she then 
stood on the boards of the Paris Grand Opera, she would have 
created a wild ‘ furore.’ Lady Wicketts knitted placidly; 
she was making a counterpane, which no doubt someone 
would reluctantly decide to sleep under — and Miss Fosby 


God’s Good Man 


397 


embroidered a cushion cover for Lady Wicketts, who already 
possessed many of these articles wrought by the same hand. 
Maryllia occupied herself in writing many letters, — and all was 
peace. Nothing in any way betokened a change, or suggested 
the slightest interruption to the sun-lighted serenity of the 
long, lovely summer days. 


XXV 


TTThatever the feelings of John Walden were con- 
* ’ cerning the incidents that had led him to more or 
less give himself away, as the saying goes, into Maryllia’s 
hands, he remained happily unconscious of the fact that Lord 
Roxmouth had overheard his interview with her in the picture- 
gallery — and being a man who never brooded over his own 
particular small vexations and annoyances, he had. determined, 
as far as might be possible, to put the whole incident behind 
him, as it were, and try to forget it. Of course he knew he 
never could forget it, — he knew that the sweet look in 
Maryllia’s eyes — the little appealing touch of her hand on 
his arm, would be perchance the most vivid impressions of 
his life till that life should be ended. But it was useless to 
dwell with heart-aching persistence on her fascination, or on 
what he now called his own utter foolishness, and he was 
glad that he had arranged to visit his old friend Bishop Brent, 
as this enabled him to go away at once for three or four days. 
And it was possible, so he argued with himself, that this three 
or four days’ break of the magnetic charm that had, against 
his own wish and will, enslaved his thoughts and senses, 
would restore him to that state of self-poise and philosophic 
tranquillity in which he had for so many years found an 
almost, if not quite, perfect happiness. Bracing himself fully 
up to the determination that he would, at all hazards, make 
an effort to recover his lost peace, he made rapid preparations 
for his departure from St. Rest, and going the round of his 
parish, he let all whom it might concern know, that for the 
first time in a long ten years, he was about to take two or 
three days’ holiday. The announcement was received by 
some with good-natured surprise — by others with incredulity — 
but by most, with the usual ' comfortable resignation to 
circumstances which is such a prevailing characteristic of 
the rustic mind. 

“ It’ll do ye good, Passon, that it will ! ” said Mrs. Prost, in 
her high acidulated voice, which by dint of constant scolding 
and screaming after her young family had become almost 
xaspish — “ For you’re looking that white about the gills that 

398 


God’s Good Man 


399 


it upsets my mind to see it. I sez to Adam onny t’other day, 
4 You’ll be diggin’ a grave for Passon presently — see if you 
don’t — for he’s runnin’ downhill as fast as a loaded barrow 
with naught ahint it.’ That’s what I said, Passon — an’ its 
Gospel true ! ” 

Walden smiled. 

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Frost,” — he said, patiently — 
“ I am certainly going downhill, as you say — but I must try 
to put a little check on the wheels! There’s one thing to be 
said about it, if Adam digs my grave, as it is likely he will, 
I know he will do it better than any other sexton in the 
county ! I shall sleep in it well, and securely ! ” 

Mrs. Frost felt a certain sense of pride in this remark. 

“ You may say that, Passon — you may say that and not 
be fur wrong,” — she said, complacently — “ Adam don’t do 
much, but what he doos is well done, an’ there’s no mistake 
about it. If I ’adn’t a known ’im to be a ’andy man in his 
trade he wouldn’t ’a had me to wife, I do assure you ! ” 

Walden smiled and passed on. To Mr. Netlips, the grocer, 
he confided a few orders for the household supplies during his 
absence, which that worthy and sapient personage accepted 
with due attention. 

“It is a demonstrable dispensation, Mr. Walden, sir,” — * 
he said, “ that you should be preparing yourself for locomotion 
at the moment when the house-party at the Manor is also 
severed indistinguishably. There is no one there now, so 
my imparted information relates, with the exception of her 
ladyship Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from 
the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg.” 

Walden’s eyes twinkled. He was always very indulgent to 
Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in 
his own special flow of language. 

“ Really ! ” he said — •“ And so they are all gone ! Pm 
afraid it will make a difference to your trade, Mr. Netlips! 
How about your Petrol storage ? ” 

Mr. Netlips smiled, with a comfortable air of self-conscious 
wisdom. 

“It has been absorbed — quite absorbed,” he said, com- 
placently — “ The board of announcement was prospective, not 
penetrative. Orders were consumed in rotation, and his lord- 
ship Charlemont was the last applicant on the formula.” 

“ I see ! ” said Walden — “ So you are no loser by the trans- 
action. I’m glad to hear it! Good-day! I only intend to 


400 


God’s Good Man 


be away a short time. You will scarcely miss me, — as I shall 
occupy my usual post on Sunday.” 

“Your forethought, Mr. Walden, sir, is of a most high 
complication,” — rejoined Mr. Netlips with a gracious bend of 
his fat neck — “And it is not to be regretted by the profane 
that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen 
in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day. 
Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for 
health’s sake. You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden 
sir, of late ; I trust you will beneficially profit by change.” 

Walden thanked him, and went his way. His spirits were 
gradually rising — he was relieved to hear that Maryllia’s house- 
party had broken up and dispersed, and he cogitated within 
himself as to whether he should go and say good-bye to her 
before leaving the village, or just let things remain as they 
were. He was a little uncertain as to which was the wisest 
course to adopt, — and while he was yet thinking about it he 
passed the cottage of old Josey Letherbarrow, and saw the old 
man sitting at his door peacefully smoking, while at his feet, 
Ipsie Frost was curled up comfortably like a kitten, busying 
herself in tying garlands of ivy and honeysuckle round the tops 
of his big coarsely-laced boots. Pausing, John leaned on the 
gate and looked at the two with a smile. 

“ Ullo, Passon ! ” said Ipsie, turning her blue eyes up at 
him with a confidential air — “ Turn an’ tie up my Zozey-Posey! 
Zozey-Posey’s bin naughty, — he’s dot to be tied up so he 
tan’t move!” 

“And when he’s good again, what then?” said Walden — • 
“ Will you untie him ? ” 

Ipsie stared roundly and meditatively. 

“ Dunno ! ” — she said — “ ’Specks I will ! But oh, my Zozey- 
Posey is so bad!” and she screwed her little flaxen head 
round with an expression of the most comical distress — “ See 
my wip ? ” And she held up a long stem of golden-rod in 
flower, — “Zozey dot to be wipped — poor Zozey! But he’s dot 
to be tied up fust!” 

J osey heard all this nonsense babble with delighted interest, 
and surveyed the tops of his decorated boots with much ad- 
miration. 

“ Ain’t she a little caution ! ” he said — “ She do mind me 
somehow of th’ owld Squire’s gel ! Ay, she do ! — Miss Maryllia 
was just as peart and dauntsome when she was her age. Did 
I ever tell ye, Passon, ’bout Miss Maryllia’s legs an’ the wopses* 
nest ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


401 


John started violently. What was the old man talking 
about? He felt that he must immediately put a stop to any 
chance of indecorous garrulity. 

“ No, you never told me anything about it, Josey,” — he 
said, hastily, — “an I’ve no time just now to stay and listen. 
I’m off on a visit for two or three days — you won’t see me 
again till Sunday.” 

Josey drew his pipe slowly out of his mouth. 

“ Goin’ away, Passon, are ye ? ” he said in quavering accents 
of surprise — “ Ain’t that a bit strange like ? ” 

“ Why yes, I suppose it is,” — said John, half laughing — “ I 
never do go away I know — but ” 

“Look ’ere Passon! Speak frank an’ fair! — there baint 
nothin’ drivin’ ye away, be there ? ” 

The hot colour sprang to Walden’s brows. 

“Why no, Josey! — of course not! How can you think of 
such a thing?” 

Josey stooped and patted Ipsie’s flaxen tangle of curls 
softly. Then he straightened himself and looked fully into 
John’s face. 

“ Well I dunno how ’tis, Passon,” — he said, slowly — “ When 
the body gets old an’ feels the failin’ o’ the dark shadder, the 
soul begins to feel young, an’ sees all at once the light a-comin’ 
which makes all things clear. See this little child playin’ wi’ 
me? — well, she don’t think o’ me as an old worn man, but as 
somethin’ young like herself — an’ for why? Because she sees 
the soul o’ me, — the eyes o’ the children see souls more’n 
bodies, if ye leave ’em alone an’ don’t worrit ’em wi’ worldly 
talk. An’ it’s my soul wot sees more’n my body — an’ that’s 
why I sez to ye, Passon, that if so be you’ve any trouble don’t 
run away from it ! Stay an’ fight it out — it’s the onny way !— 
fight it out ! ” 

Walden was for a moment taken aback. Then he answered 
steadily. 

“You’re right, Josey! If I had any trouble I should stay 
and as you say, fight it out; — but I’ve none, Josey! — none in 
the world! I am as happy as I can be, — far happier than I 
deserve, — and I’m rnly going away to see my old friend 
Bishop Brent — you remember — the Bishop who consecrated 
the church seven years ago ? ” — Josey nodded comprehensively, 
“ He lives, as you know, quite a hundred miles from here — 
but I shall be in my usual place on Sunday.” 

“ Please God, you will ! ” said J osey, devoutly — “ And please 


402 


God’s Good Man 


God, so shall I. But there’s never no knowin’ what may ’appen 
In a day or two days ” 

Here Ipsie gave vent to a yell of delight. She had been 
groping among the flowers in the cottage border, and now 
held up a deep red rose, darkly glowing at its centre. 

u Wed wose! ” she announced, screamingly — “ Wed — all wed! 
For Passon ! Passon, tiss it ! ” 

John still leaning on the gate, reached down and took the 
flower, kissing it as he was told, with lips that trembled on 
the velvet leaves. It was one of the ‘old French damask’ 
roses — and its rick scent, so soft and full of inexplicable fine 
delicacy, affected him strangely. 

“’Ave ye heard as ’ow Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to marry that 
fine gen’leman wot’s at Badsworth ? ” pursued J osey, presently, 
beginning to chuckle as he asked the question — “Roxmouth, 
they calls him; — Lord, Lord, what clicketin’ talk, like all the 
grass-’oppers out for a fairin’! She ain’t goin’ to marry no 
Roxmouths, bless ’er ’art ! — she’s goin’ to stick to the old ’ome 
an’ people, and never leave ’em no more! I knows her mind! 
She tells old Josey wot she don’t tell nobody else, you bet she 
do!” 

John Walden tried not to look interested. 

“Miss Yancourt will no doubt marry some day,” — he said, 
somewhat lamely. 

“ Av coorse she will ! ” — returned J osey — “ When Mr. Right 
comes along, she’ll know ’im fast enough! Them blue eyes 
ain’t goin’ to be deceived, 1 tell ye ! But she ain’t goin’ to be 
no Duchess as they sez, — it’s my ’pinion plain Missis is good 
’nough for the Squire’s gel, if so be a lovin’ an’ true Mister 
was to ax ’er and say — ‘ Will ’ee be my purty little wife, an’ 
warm my cold ’art all the days o’ my life?’ — an’ there’d be 
no wantin’ dukes nor lords round when there’s real love drivin’ 
a man an’ woman into each other’s arms! Lord — Lord, don’t 
I know it! Seems but t’other day I was a fine man o’ thirty 
odd, an’ walkin’ under the hawthorns all white wi’ bloom, an’ 
my wife that was to be strollin’ shy like at my side — we was 
kind o’ skeered o’ one another, courtin’ without knowin’ we 
was courtin’ ezackly, an’ she ’ad a little blue print gown on 
an’ a white linen sunbonnet — I kin see ’er as clear an’ plain 
as I see you, Passon ! — an’ she looks up an’ she sez — ‘ Ain’t it 
a lovely day, Joe?’ An’ I sez — ‘Yes, it’s lovely, an’ you’re 
lovely too ! ’ An’ my ’art gave a great dump agin my breast, 
an’ ’fore I knowed it I ’ad ’er in my arms a-kissin’ ’er for all 
I was worth! Ay, that was so — an’ I never regretted them 


God’s Good Man 


403 


kisses under th 6 may-trees, I tell ye ! An* that’s what’ll ’appen 
to Squire’s gel — some good man ’ull walk by ’er side one o’ 
these days, an’ won’t know wot he’s a-doin’ of nor she neither, 
an’ love ’ull just come down an’ settle in their ’arts like a 
broodin’ dove o’ the ’Oly Spirit, not speakin’ blasphemous, 
Passon, I do assure ye! For if Love ain’t a ’Oly Spirit, then 
there ain’t no Lord God in the 1 Love one another ! ’ I sez ’tis 
a ’Oly Spirit wot draws fond ’arts together an’ makes ’em beat 
true — and the ’Oly Spirit ’ull fall on Squire’s gel in its own 
time an’ bring a blessin’ with it. That’s wot I sez, — are ye 
goin’, Passon ? ” 

“Yes — I’m going,” said John in an uncertain voice, while 
Ipsie stared up at him in sudden enquiring wonder, perhaps 
because he looked so pale, and because the hand in which he 
held the rose she had given him trembled slightly — “ I’ve a 
number of things to do, Josey — otherwise I should love to 
stop and hear you talk — you know I should ! ” and he smiled 
kindly — “For you are quite right, Josey! You have faith in 
the beautiful and the true, and so have I! I believe — yes — 
I believe that everything — even a great sorrow — is for the 
best. We cannot see, — we do not know — but we should trust 
the Divine mind of God enough to feel that all is, all must 
be well ! ” 

“That’s so, Passon!” said Josey, with gr*ve heartiness — 
“ Stick to that, an’ we’re all right. God bless ye ! I’ll see ye 
Sunday if I ain’t gone to glory ! ” 

Walden pulled open the garden gate to shake hands with 
the old man, and to kiss Ipsie who, as he lifted her up in his 
arms, caressed his cheeks with her two dumpy hands. 

“ Has ’00 seen my lady-love ? ” she asked, in a crooning 
whisper — “ My bootiful white lady-love ? ” 

Walden looked at Josey perplexedly. 

“ She means Miss Maryllia,” — said the old man — “ That’s 
the name she’s given ’er — lady-love — the thinkin’ little imp 
she is! Where’s lady-love? Why she’s in ’er own house — 
she don’t want any little tags o’ babbies runnin’ round ’er — 
your lady-love’s got somethin’ else to do.” 

“She ai',\t! ” said Ipsie, with dramatic emphasis — “ She 
turns an’ sees me offen — ’00 don’t know nuffin’ ’bout it! Has 
’00 seen ’er ? ” she asked Walden again, taking hold of on® 
end of his moustache very tenderly. 

He patted the little chubby arm. 

“I saw her the other night,” — he said, a sudden rush of 


404 


God’s Good Man 


words coming to his lips in answer to the child’s query — “ Yes, 
Ipsie, — I saw her ! She was all in white, as a lady-love should 
he — only there were little flushes of pink on her dress like 

the sunset on a cloud — and she had diamonds in her hair,” 

Here Ipsie sighed a profound sigh of comfortable ecstasy — 
“ and she looked very sweet and beautiful — and — and ” — 
Here he suddenly paused. Josey Letherbarrow was looking 
at him with sudden interest. “ And that’s all, Ipsie ! ” 

“ Didn’t she say nullin’ ’bout me ? ” asked the small autocrat. 

Walden set her gently down on the ground. 

“ Hot then, Ipsie,” — he said — “ She was very busy. But 
I am sure she thought of you ! ” 

Ipsie looked quite contented. 

“ ’Ess, — my lady-love finks a lot, oh, a lot of me ! ” she said, 
seriously — “ Alius finkin’ of me ! ” 

John smiled, and again shook old Josey’s hand. 

“ Good-bye till Sunday ! ” he said. 

“ Good-bye, Passon!” rejoined Josey, cheerily — “ Good luck 
t’ye ! God bless ye ! ” 

And the old man watched John’s tall, slim athletic figure 
as long as his failing sight could follow it, murmuring to 
himself — 

“Who’d a thought it! — who’d ’a thought it! Yet mehbe 
I’m wrong — an’ mebbe I’m right ! — for the look o’ love never 
lightens a man’s eyes like that but once in his life — all the 
rest o’ the sparkles is only imitations o’ the real fire. The 
real fire burns once, an’ only once — an’ it’s fierce an’ hot when 
it kindles up in a man after the days o’ his youth are gone! 
An’ if the real fire wora’t in Passon’s eyes when he talked o 9 
the lady-love, than I’m an old idgit wot never felt my heart 
go dunt again my side in courtin’ time ! ” 

Walden meanwhile went on his round of visits, and pres- 
ently, — the circle of his poorer parishioners being completed, 
— he decided to call on Julian Adderley at his 1 cottage in the 
wood’ and tell him also of his intended absence. He had 
taken rather a liking to this eccentric ofi-shoot of an eccentric 
literary set, — he had found that despite some slight surface 
affectations, Julian had very straight principles, and loyal 
ideas of friendship, and that he was not without a certain 
poetic talent which, if he studied hard and to serious purpose, 
might develop into something of more or less worthiness. 
Some lines that he had recently written and read aloud to 
Walden, had a haunting ring which clung to the memory: 


405 


God’s Good Man 


Art thou afraid to live, my Heart? 

Look round and see 
What life at its best. 

With its strange unrest. 

Can mean for thee! 

Ceaseless sorrow and toil. 

Waits for each son of the soil; 

And the highest work seems ever unpaid 
By God and man. 

In the mystic plan; — 

Think of it! Art thou afraid? 

Art thou afraid to love, my Heart? 

Look well and see 
If any sweet thing, 

That can sigh or sing. 

Hath need of thee! 

Of Love cometh wild desire. 

Hungry and fierce as fire. 

In the souls of man and maid, — 

But the fulness thereof 
Is the end of love, — 

Think of it! Art thou afraid? 

Art thou afraid of Death, my Heart? 

Look down and see 
What the corpse on the bed. 

So lately dead, 

Can teach to thee! 

Is it the close of the strife. 

Or a new beginning of Life? 

The secret is not betrayed; — 

But Darkness makes clear 
That Light must be near! 

Think of it! Art thou afraid? 

“ * Darkness makes clear, that Light must be near/ — I am 
sure that is true ! ” — murmured J ohn, as he swung along at a 
quick pace through a green lane leading out of the village into 
the wider country, where two or three quaint little houses with 
thatched roofs were nestled among the fields, looking like 
dropped acorns in the green, — “ It must be true, — there are 
so many old saws and sayings of the same kind, like ‘ The 
darkest hour’s before the dawn.’ But why should I seek to 
console myself with a kind of Tupper 1 proverbial philosophy 9 ? 
I have no black hour threatening me, — I have nothing in the 
world to complain of or grumble at except my own undis* 


406 


God’s Good Man 


ciplined nature, which even at my age shows me it can * kick 
against the pricks ’ and make a fool of me ! ” 

Here turning a corner of the road which was overshaded 
by a huge chestnut-tree, he suddenly came face to face with 
the Reverend Putwood Leveson, who, squatted on the bank 
by the roadside, with his grand-pianoforte legs well exposed 
to view in tight brown knickerbockers and grey worsted stock- 
ings, was bending perspiringly over his recumbent bicycle, 
mending something which had, as usual, gone wrong. 

“ Hullo, Walden! ” he said, looking up and nodding casually 
— “ Haven’t seen you for an age ! What have you been doing 
with yourself? Always up at the Manor, I suppose! Great 
attraction at the Manor! — he-he-hel” 

A certain quick irritation, like that produced by the teasing 
buzz of some venomous insect, affected Walden’s nerves. He 
looked at the porcine proportions of his brother minister with 
an involuntary sense of physical repulsion. Then he answered 
stiffly — 

“ I don’t understand you. I have not been visiting at the 
Manor at all. I dined there the night before last for the first 
and only time.” 

Leveson winked one purple puffy eyelid. Then he began 
his ‘He-he-he’ again to himself, while he breathed hard and 
sweated profusely over the rubber tyre of his machine. 

“ Is that so? ” he sniggered — “ Well, that’s all the better for 
you! — you do well to keep away! Men of our cloth ought 
not to be seen there really.” 

And scrambling to his feet with elephantine ease, he 
brushed the dust from his knickers, and wiped his brows with 
an uncleanly handkerchief which looked as if it had been used 
for drying oil off the bicycle as well as off the man. 

“We ought not to be seen there,” — he repeated, disregarding 
Walden’s steady coldness of eye — “I myself made a great 
mistake when I wrote to the woman. I ought not to have 
done so. But of course I did not know — I thought it was all 
right.’’ And the reverend gentleman assumed an air of mam- 
moth-like innocence — “ I am so mediaeval, you know ! — I never 
suspect anything or anybody! I wrote to her in quite a 
friendly way, suggesting that I should arrange her family 
papers for her — I thought she might as well employ me as 
anyone else — and she never answered my letter — never an- 
swered a word ! ” 

“ Well, of course not!” said Walden, composedly, though 
his blood began to tingle hotly through his veins with rising 


God’s Good Man 


407 


indignation — “ Why should she ? Her family papers are all 
in order, and no doubt she considered your application both 
ignorant and impertinent.” 

Leveson’s gross countenance flushed a deeper crimson. 

“ Ignorant and impertinent ! ” he echoed — “ Come, I like 
that! Why she ought to have considered herself uncommonly 
lucky to receive so much as a civil letter from a respectable 
man, — such a woman as she is! — ‘ Maryllia Van’ — he-he-he- 
he!” 

Walden took a quick step towards him. 

“ What do you mean ? ” he demanded — “ What right have 
you to speak of her in such a manner? ” 

Leveson recoiled, startled by the intense pallor of Walden’s 
face, and the threatening light in his eyes. 

“What right?” he stammered — “Why — why what do you 
mean by flaring up in such a temper, eh ? What does it matter 
to you ? ” 

“ It matters this much, — that I will not allow Miss Vancourt 
to be insulted by you or anyone else !” retorted Walden, hotly 
— “ You have never spoken to her, — you know nothing about 
her, — so hold your tongue ! ” 

The Reverend ‘Putty’s’ round eyes protruded with amaze- 
ment. 

“ Hold — my — tongue ! ” he repeated, in a kind of stupefac- 
tion — “Are you gone mad, Walden? Do you know who you 
are talking to ? ” 

John gave a short laugh. His hands clenched involuntarily. 

“ Oh, I know well enough ! ” he said — “ I am talking to a 
man who has no more regard for a woman’s name than a cat 
has for the mouse it kills ! I am talking to a man who is an 
ordained Christian minister, who has less Christianity than 
a dog, which at least is faithful to its master ! ” 

Leveson uttered a kind of inarticulate sound something 
between a gasp and a grunt. Then he fell back on his old 
snigger. 

“He-he, he-he-he!” he bleated — “You must be crazy, Wal- 
den! — or else you’ve been drinking! I’ve a perfect right to 
speak of the Abbot’s Manor woman if I like and as I like! 
All men have a right to do the same — she’s been pretty well 
handed round as common property for a long time! Why, 
she’s perfectly notorious ! — everybody knows that ! ” 

“You lie!” 

And Walden sprang at him, one powerful clenched fist up- 
lifted. Leveson staggered back in terror, — and so for a mo- 


God’s Good Man 


408 

ment they stood, staring upon one another. They did not 
hear a stealthy rustle among the branches of the chestnut-tree 
near which they stood, nor see a long lithe shadow creep 
towards them for the dense low-hanging foliage. Face to face, 
eye to eye, they remained for a moment’s space as though 
ready to close and wrestle, — then suddenly Walden’s arm 
dropped to his side. 

“ My God ! ” he muttered — “ I nearly struck you ! ” 

Leveson drew a long breath of relief, and sneaked backward 
on his heels. 

“ You — you’re a nice kind of ‘ ordained Christian minister ’ 
aren’t you ? ” he spluttered — “ With all your humbug and cant 
you’re no better than a vulgar bully ! A vulgar bully ! — that’s 
what you are! I’ll report you to the Bishop — see if I don’t! 
— brow-heating me, and putting me in bodily fear, all about a 
woman too! Great Scott! — a fine scandal you’ll make in the 
Church one of these days if you’re not watched pretty closely 
and pulled up pretty sharply — and pulled up you shall be, 
take my word for it! We’ve had about enough of your high- 
and-mighty airs — it’s time you learned to know your place 

The words had scarcely left his mouth when a pair of long 
muscular arms seized him by the shoulders, shook him briefly 
and emphatically, and turning him easily over, deposited him 
flat in the dust. 

“ It is time — yea verily ! — it is full time you learned to know 
your place! ” said Julian Adderley, calmly standing with legs 
astride across his fat recumbent body — “ And there it is — and 
there you are! My dear Walden, how are you? Excuse my 
shaking hands with you — having defiled myself, as the Ori- 
entals say, by touching unclean meat, I must wash first ! ” 

For a moment Walden had been so taken aback by the 
suddenness of Leveson’s unexpected overthrow that he could 
scarcely realise what had happened, — but presently when the 
Beverend ‘Putty’s’ cobby legs began to sprawl uneasily on 
the ground, and the Reverend ‘Putty’ himself gave vent to 
sundry blasphemous oaths and curses, he grasped the full 
humour of the situation. A broad smile lit up his face. 

“ That was a master-stroke, Adderley ! ” he said, and the 
smile deepened into sudden laughter — “ But how in the world 
did you come here ? ” 

“I was here all the time,”— said Adderley, still standing 
across Leveson’s prostrate form — “ Returning to the habits of 
primaeval monkey as I often do, I was seated in the boughs 


God’s Good Man 


409 


of that venerable chestnut-tree — and I heard all the argument. 
I enjoyed it. I was hoping to see the Church militant be- 
labour the Church recusant. It would have been so new — 
»o fresh! But as the sacred blow failed, the secular one was 
bound to fall. Don’t get up, my excellent sir! — don’t, I 
beseech of you ! ” This to Leveson, who was trying by means 
of the most awkward contortions to rise to a sitting posture 
— “You will find it difficult — among other misfortunes your 
knickers will burst, and there is no tailor close at hand. 
Spare yourself, — and us ! ” 

“Oh give him a hand, Adderley!” said Walden, good* 
naturedly. “ Help him up ! He’s had his beating ! ” 

“ He hasn’t,” — declared Julian, with a lachrymose air of 
intense regret — “I wish he had! He is less hrrt than if he 
had fallen off his bicycle. He is in no pain; — would that he 
were ! ” 

Here Leveson managed to partially lift himself on one side. 

“ Assault ! ” he stuttered — “ Assault — common assault ” 

“And battery,” — said Julian — “You can summons me, my 
dear sir — if you feel so inclined! I shall be happy to explain 
the whole incident in court — and also to pay the five pounds 
penalty. I only wish I could have got more for my money. 
There’s such a lot of you ! — such a lot ! ” he repeated, musing- 
ly, “ And I’ve only sailed round such a small portion of your 
vast fleshy continent ! ” 

Walden controlled his laughter, and stooping, offered to 
assist Leveson to get up, but the indignant ‘Putty’ refused 
all aid, and setting his own two hands firmly against the 
ground, tried again to rise. 

“Remove your legs, sir!” he shouted to Julian, who still 
Btood across him in apparent abstraction — “How dare you 
. — how dare you pin me down in this fashion ? — how 
dare ” 

Here his voice died away choked by rage. 

“ You are witty without knowing it, my fat friend ! ” said 
Julian languidly — “Legs, in slang parlance, are sometimes 
known as ‘pins,’ — therefore, when jou say I ‘pin’ you down, 
you use an expression which is, like the ‘ mobled queen ’ in 
Hamlet, good. Be unpinned, good priest — and remember that 
you must be prepared to say your prayers backwards, next 
time you slander a woman ! ” 

He relaxed his position, and Leveson with an effort scram- 
bled to his feet, covered with dust. Picking up his cap from 
the gutter where it had fallen, he got his bicycle and pre- 


4io 


God’s Good Man 


pared to mount it. He presented a most unlovely spectacle 
— his face, swollen and crimson with fury, seemed twice its 
usual size, — his little piggy eyes rolled in his head like those 
of a man threatened with apoplexy — and the oily perspiration 
stood upon his brow and trickled from his carroty hair in 
great drops. 

“ You shall pay for this ! ” he said in low vindictive tones, 
shaking his fist at both Walden and Adderley — “ There are 
one or two old scores to be wiped off in this village, and mine 
will help to increase the account! Your fine lady at the 
Manor isn’t going to have everything her own way, I can tell 
you — nor you either, you — you — you upstart ! ” 

With this last epithet hurled out at Walden, who, shrugging 
his shoulders, received it with ineffable contempt, he got on 
his machine and worked his round legs and round wheels 
together furiously away. When his bulky form had disap- 
peared, the two men he had left behind glanced at one another, 
and moved by the same risible emotion burst out laughing, — 
and once their laughter began, they gave it full vent, Walden’s 
mellow ‘ Ha-ha-ha ! ’ ringing out on the still air with all the 
zest and heartiness of a boy’s mirth. 

“ Upon my word, Adderley, you are a capital ‘ thrower ’ ? ” 
he said, clapping Julian on the shoulder. “ I never was more 
surprised in my life than to see that monstrous c ton of man ’ 
heave over suddenly and sprawl in the dust! It was an 
artistic feat, most artistically executed ! ” 

“ It was — it was, — I think so myself ! ” — agreed Julian — 
“I am proud of my own skill! That pious porpoise will not 
forget me in a hurry. You see, my dear Walden, you merely 
threatened punishment, — you did not inflict it, — I suppose 
out of some scruple of Church conscience, which is quite a 
different conscience to the lay examples, — and it was necessary 
to act promptly. The air of St. Rest is remarkably free from 
miasma, but Leveson was discharging microbes from his 
tongue and person generally that would have been dangerous 
to life in another minute.” He laughed again. “Were you 
coming my way ? ” 

“ Yes, I was,” replied Walden, as they began to walk along 
the road together — “ I am going away on a visit, and I meant 
to call and say good-bye to you.” 

Julian glanced at him curiously. 

“ Going away ? For long ? ” 

“Oh no! Only for two or three days. I want to see my 
Bishop.” 


God’s Good Man 


411 

“ On a point of conscience ? ” 

John smiled, but coloured a little too. 

u No — not exactly! We are very old friends, Brent and I— 
but we have not met for seven years, — not since my church 
was consecrated. It will be pleasant to us to have a chat 
about old times ” 

“ And new . times — don’t leave them out,” said Julian — 
“ They are quite as interesting. The present is as pleasing as 
the past, don’t you think so ? ” 

Walden hesitated. A touch of sorrow and lingering regret 
clouded his eyes. 

# “ No — I cannot say that I do ! ” he answered, at last, with a 
sigh — “ In the past I was young, with all the world before me, 
— in the present I am old, with all the world behind me ! ” 
“Does it matter?” and Adderley lifted his eyelids with a 
languid expression — “ For instance let us suppose that in the 
past you have lost something and that in the present you gain 
something, does it not equalise the position ? ” 

“ The gain is very little in my case! ” — said John, yet even 
as he spoke he felt a pang of shame at his own thanklessness. 
Had he not secured a peaceful home, a round of work that he 
loved, and happiness far beyond his merits, and had not God 
blessed him with health and a quiet mind? Yes — till quite 

lately he had had a quiet mind — but now 

“ You perhaps do not realise how much the gain is, or how 
far it extends,” — pursued Adderley, thoughtfully — “ Youth 
and age appear to me to have perfectly equal delights and 
drawbacks. Take me, for example, — I am young, but I am 
in haste to be older, and when I am old I am sure I shall 
never want to be young again. It is too unsettled a condi- 
tion ! ” 

Walden smiled, but made no answer. They walked on in 
comparative silence till they reached Adderley’s cottage — a 
humble but charmingly artistic tenement, with a thatched roof 
and a small garden in front which was little more than a 
tangle of roses. 

“I am taking this house — this mansion — on,” said Julian, 
pausing at the gate — “ I shall stop here all winter. The sur- 
roundings suit me. Inspiration visits me in the flowering of 
the honeysuckle, and encircles me in the whispering of the 
wind among the roses. When the leaves drop and the roses 
fade, I shall hear a different chord on the harp of song. When 
the sleet and snow begin to fall, I shall listen to the dripping 
of the tears of Nature with as much sympathy as I now bask 


412 


God’s Good Man 


in her smiles, t have been writing verses to the name of 
Maryllia — they are not finished — but they will come by de- 
grees — yes! — I am sure they will come! This is how they 
begin,” — and leaning on the low gate of his cottage entrance 
he recited softly, with half -closed eyes: 

In the flowering-time of year 
When the heavens were crystal clear. 

And the skylark’s singing sweet 
Close against the sun did beat, — 

All the sylphs of all the streams. 

All the fairies born in dreams, 

All the elves with wings of flame. 

Trooping forth from Cloudland came 
To the wooing of Maryllia! 

Walden murmured something inarticulate, but Adderley 
waved him into silence, and continued: 

Woodland sprites of ferns and trees, 

Ariels of the wandering breeze, 

Kelpies from the hidden caves 
Coral-bordered ’neath the waves. 

Sylphs, that in the rose’s heart, 

Laugh when leaves are blown apart,— 

All the Faun and Dryad crew 
From their mystic forests flew 

To the wooing of Maryllia! 

a Very fanciful! ” said John, with a forced smile — “I sup- 
pose you can go on like that interminably?” 

“ I can, and I will,” — said Julian — “ So long as the fit 
possesses me. But not now. You are in a hurry, and you 
wish to say good-bye. You imply the P.P.C. in your aspect. 
So be it ! I shall see you on Sunday in the pulpit as usual ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Badsworth Hall will probably attend your ministrations, 
so I am told,” — continued Julian — “ Lord Roxmouth wants to 
hear you preach, — and Sir Morton himself proposes to 4 sit 
under ’ you.” 

“ Sorry for it! ” said Walden abruptly — “He should attend 
his own * cure ’ — Mr. Leveson.” 

They laughed. 

“Of course you don’t credit that story about Miss Van- 
court’s marriage with Lord Roxmouth?” queried Adderley, 
suddenly. 


God’s Good Man 


4i3 


"I am slow to believe anything I hear,” — replied John—* 
u But — is it quite without foundation ? ” 

Adderley looked him straight in the eyes. 

“Quite! Very quite! Most quite! My dear Walden, you 
are pale! A change, even a brief one, will do you good. Go 
and see your Bishop by all means. And tell him how nearly, 
how very nearly you gave prestige to the calling of a Church- 
man by knocking down a rascal ! ” 

They parted then; and by sundown Walden was in the train 
speeding away from St. Rest at the rate of fifty miles an hour 
to one of the great manufacturing cities where human beings 
swarm together more thickly than bees in a hive, and over- 
crowd and jostle each other’s lives out in the desperate struggle 
for mere bread. Bainton and Nebbie were left sole masters of 
the rectory and its garden, and both man and dog were de- 
pressed in spirits, and more or less restless and discontented 
“ ’Tain’t what it used to be by no manner o’ means,” — mut- 
tered Bainton, looking with a dejected air round the 
orchard, where the wall fruit was hanging in green clusters 
of promise — “Passon don’t seem to care, an’ when he don’t 
care then 1 don’t care! Why, it seems onny t’other day ’twas 
May morning, an’ he was carryin’ Ipsie Frost on his shoulder,, 
an’ leadin’ all the children wi’ the Maypole into the big 
meadow, an’ all was as right as right could be, — yet ’ere we’re 
onny just in August an’ everything’s topsy-turvy like. Lord, 
Lord ! — ’ow trifles do make up a sum o’ life to be sure, as the 
copybooks sez — for arter all, what’s ’appened? Naught in any 
wise partikler. Miss Vancourt ’as come ’ome to her own, — • 
an’ she’s ’ad a few friends from Lunnon stayin’ with ’er. 
That’s simple enough, as simple as plantains growin’ in a 
lawn. Then Miss Vancourt’s ’usband that is to be, comes 
down an’ stays with old Blusterdash Pippitt at the ’All, in 
order to be near ’is sweet’art. There ain’t nothin’ out of the 
common in that. It’s all as plain as piecrust. An’ Passon 
ain’t done nothin’ either but jest his dooty as he alius doos it, 
— he ain’t been up to the Manor more’n once, — he ain’t been 
at the ’All, — an’ Miss Vancourt she ain’t been ’ere neither 
since the day he broke his best lilac for her. So it can’t be 
she what’s done mischief — nor him, nor any on ’em. So I sez 
to myself, what is it? What’s come over the old place? 
What’s come over Passon? Neither place nor man’s the same 
somehow, yet blest if I know where the change comes in. 
It’s like one of the ways o’ 'the Lord, past findin’ out ! ” 

He might have thought there was something still more to 


God’s Good Man 


4i4 

wonder at if lie could have looked into Josey Letherbarrow’s 
cottage that evening and seen Maryllia there, sitting on a low 
stool at the old man’s knee and patting his wrinkled hand 
tenderly, while she talked to him in a soft undertone and he 
listened with grave intentness and sagacity, though also with 
something of sorrow. 

“ Ah’ so ye think it’s the onny way, my beauty! ” he queried, 
anxiously — “ There ain’t no other corner round it ? ” 

“I’m afraid not, dear Josey!” she answered, with a sigh — 
“ And I’m telling you all about it, because you knew my 
father, and because you saw me when I was a little child. 
You would not like me to marry a man whom I hate, — a man 
who is bad right through, and who only wants my aunt’s 
money, which he would get if I consented to be his wife. I 
am sure, Josey, you don’t think money is the best thing in 
life, do you ? — I know you agree with me that love is better ? ” 

Josey looked down upon her where she sat with an almost 
devout tenderness. 

“ Love’s the onny thing in the world worth ’avin’ an’ keeping 
my beauty ! ” he said — “ An’ love’s wot you desarves, an’ wot 
you’re sure to get. I wouldn’t see Squire’s gel married for 
money, no, not if it was a reglar gold mine! — I’d rather see 
’er in ’er daisy grave fust ! An’ I don’t want to see ’er with a 
lord nor a duke, — I’ll be content to see ’er with a good man if 
the Lord will grant me that ’fore I die! An’ you do as you 
feels to be right, an’ all things ’ull work together for good to 
them as loves the Lord! That’s Passon’s teachin’ an’ rare 
good teachin’ it be ! ” 

At this Maryllia rose rather hurriedly and put oh her hat, 
tying its chiffon strings slowly under her chin. 

“Good-bye, Josey dear!” — she said — “It won’t be for very 
long. But you must keep my secret — you mustn’t say a word, 
not even” — here she paused and laughed a little forcedly— 
“ not even to the Parson you’re so fond of ! ” 

Josey looked at her sideways, with a quaintly meditative 
expression. 

“Passon be gone away hisself,” — he said, a little smile 
creeping among the kindly wrinkles of his brown weather- 
beaten face — “ He baint cornin’ back till Sunday.” 

“ Gone away ? ” Maryllia was quite unconscious of the 
vibration of pain in her voice as she asked the question, as she 
was equally of the startled sorrow in her pretty eyes. 

“Ah, my beauty, gone away,” — repeated Josey, with a 
curious sort of placid satisfaction — “ Passon, he be lookin’ 


God’s Good Man 


4i5 


downhearted like, an’ a change o’ scene ’ull do ’im good mebbe, 
an’ bring ’im back all the better for it. He came an’ said 
good-bye to me this mamin’.” 

Maryllia stood for a moment irresolute. Why had he gone 
away? Her brows met in a little puckered line of puzzled 
wonder. 

“ He be gone to see the Bishop,” — pursued Josey, watching 
her tenderly with his old dim eyes, — it was like reading a love- 
story to see the faint colour flushing those soft round cheeks of 
hers, and the tremulous quiver of that sweet sensitive mouth — 
“ Church business, likely. But never you mind, my beauty ! 
— he’ll be ’ere to preach, please the Lord, on Sunday.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind,” said Maryllia, quickly recovering her- 
self — “ Only I shan’t be here, you see and and I had 

intended to explain something to him however, it doesn’t 

matter! I can write all I wanted to say. Good-bye, Josey! 
Give my love to Ipsie ! ” 

“Good-bye, my beauty!” returned Josey, with emphatic 
earnestness — “ An’ God bless ye an’ make all the rough places 
smooth for ye! You’ll find us all ’ere, lovin’ an’ true, when- 
ever ye comes, mcmin,’ noon or night — the village ain’t the 
world, but you’ve got round it, my dearie — you’ve got round 
it!” 

And in the deep midnight when the church chimes rang the 
hour, and the moon poured a pearly shower of luminance over 
the hushed woodland and silently winding river, Josey lay 
broad awake, resignedly conscious of his extreme age, and 
thinking soberly of the beginning and end of life, — the dawn 
and fruition of love, — the wonderful, beautiful, complex laby- 
rinth of experience through which every human soul is guided 
from one mystic turn to another of mingled joy and sorrow 
by that supreme Wisdom, Whom, though we cannot see, we 
trust, — and feeling the near close of his own long life-journey, 
he folded his withered hands and prayed aloud : 

“ For all Thy childem, O Lord God, that ’ave gone by the 
last milestone on the road an’ are growin’ footsore an’ weary, 
let there be Thy peace which passeth all understandin’ ! — but 
for Squire’s gel with the little lonely heart of ’er beatin’ like 
the wings of a bird that wants a nest, let there be Love I 


XXVI 


■VTEXT day at Badsworth Hall, a stately luncheon was in 
^ progress. Luncheon, or indeed any meal, partaken of 
under the rolling and excitable eye of Sir Morton Pippitt, was 
always a function fraught with considerable embarrassment to 
any guests who might happen to be present, being frequently 
assisted by the Shakespearean stage direction ( alarums and 
excursions/ With Sir Morton at the head of the table, and 
the acid personality of his daughter Miss Tabitha at the foot, 
there was very little chance of more than merely monosyllabic 
conversation, while any idea of merriment, geniality or social 
interchange of thought, withered in conception and never 
came to birth. The attention of both host and hostess was 
chiefly concentrated on the actual or possible delinquencies of 
the servants in attendance — and what with Sir Morton’s fierce 
nods and becks to unhappy footmen, and Miss Tabitha’s 
freezing menace of brow bent warningly against the butler, 
those who, as visitors, were outside these privacies of the 
domestic circle, never felt altogether at their ease. But the 
fact that other people were made uncomfortable by his chronic 
irascibility moved Sir Morton not at all, so long as he per- 
sonally could enjoy himself in his own fashion, which was 
to browbeat, bully and swear at every hapless household 
retainer that came across his path in the course of the day. 
He was more than usually choleric and fussy in the ‘dis- 
tinguished ’ presence of Lord Roxmouth, for though that indi- 
vidual had gone the social pace very thoroughly, and was, to 
put it mildly, a black sheep of modern decadence, hopelessly 
past all regeneration, he still presented the exterior appear- 
ances of a gentleman, and was careful to maintain that im- 
perturbable composure of mien, dignity of bearing, and un- 
ruffled temper which indicate breeding, though they are far 
from being evidences of sincerity. And thus it very naturally 
happened that in the companionship of the future Duke of 
Ormistoune, Sir Morton did not shine. His native vulgarity 
came out side by side with his childish pomposity, and Rox- 
mouth, after studying his habits, customs and manners for 

416 


God’s Good Man 


417 

two or three days, began to feel intensely bored and out of 
humour. 

“Upon my word,” — he said, to his fidus Achates , Marius 
Longford, — “ I am enduring a great deal for the sake of the 
Vancourt millions! To follow an erratic girl like Maryllia 
from one Continental resort to another was bad enough, — but 
to stay here in tame, highly respectable country dullness is a 
thousand times worse! Why on earth, my good fellow, could 
you not have found a more educated creature to play host to 
me than this terrible old Bone-Boiler ? ” 

Longford pressed the tips of his fingers together with a 
deprecatory gesture. 

“ There was really no one else who could receive you,” — he 
answered, almost apologetically — “I thought I had managed 
the affair rather well. You will remember that directly Miss 
Vancourt had announced to her aunt her intention to return 
to her own home, you sent me down here to investigate the 
place and its surroundings, and see what I could do. Sir 
Morton Pippitt seemed to be the only person, from the general 
bent of his character, to suit your aims, and his house was, 
(before he had it) of very excellent historic renown. I felt 
sure you would be able to use him. There is no other large 
place in the neighbourhood except Miss Vancourt’s own Manor, 
and Ittlethwaite Park — I doubt whether you could have em- 
ployed the Ittlethwaites to much purpose ” 

“ Spare me the suggestion ! ” yawned Roxmouth — ■“ I should 
not have tried ! ” 

“Well, there is no one else of suitable position, or indeed 
of sufficient wealth to entertain you,” — continued Longford — 
“ Unless you had wished mo to fraternise with the brewer, 
Mordaunt Appleby? He certainly might have been useful! 
He would sell his soul to a title ! ” 

Roxmouth gave an exclamation of mingled contempt and 
impatience, and dropped the conversation. But he was in- 
tensely weary of Sir Morton’s ‘fine jovial personality’ — he 
hated his red face, his white hair, his stout body, his servile 
obsequiousness to rank, and all his ‘darling old man’ ways. 
Darling old man he might be, but he was unquestionably a 
dull old man as well. So much so, indeed, that when at 
luncheon on the day now named, his lordship Roxmouth, as 
Mr. Netlips would have styled him, was in a somewhat petulant 
mood, being tired of the constant scolding of the servants that 
went on around him, and being likewise moved to a sort of 
loathing repulsion at the contemplation of Miss Tabitha’s 


418 


God’s Good Man 


waxy-clean face lined with wrinkles, and bordered by sternly 
smooth grey hair. He was lazily wondering to himself whether 
she had ever been young — whether the same waxy face, 
wrinkles and grey hair had not adorned her in her very cradle, 
— when the appearance of an evidently highly nervous boy in 
buttons, carrying a letter towards his host on a silver salver, 
distracted his attention. 

“ What’s this — what’s this?” spluttered Sir Morton, hastily 
dropping a fork full of peas which he had been in the 
act of conveying to his mouth — “ What are you bringing notes 
in here for, eh? Haven’t I told you I won’t have my meals 
disturbed by messages and parcels? What d’ye mean by it? 
Take it away — take it away! — No! — here! — stop a minute, 
stop a minute ! Yes — yes ! — I see ! — marked 4 immediate,’ and 
from Abbot’s Manor. My dear lord ! ” — And here he raised 
his voice to a rich warble — “ I believe this will concern you 
more than me — ha-ha-ha ! — yes, yes ! we know a thing or two ! 
4 When a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t ! ’ — 
never mind the other line ! — never mind, never mind ! ” And 
he broke open the seal of the missive presented to him, and 
adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles to read its contents. “ Eh 
— what’s this — what’s this ? God bless my soul ! ” And his 
round eyes protruded in astonishment and dismay — “ Look 
here! — I say — really! You’d better read this, my lord! God 
bless my soul ! She’s bolted ! ” 

Roxmouth started violently. Mr. Marius Longford looked 
up sharply — and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork 
with the regular old maid’s triumphant air of f I told you 
so! ’ 

“God bless my soul!” said Sir Morton again — “Was ever 
such a bit of damned cheek! — beg pardon, my lord! ” 

“ Don’t apologise ! ” said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, 
“At least, not to me! To Miss Tabitha!” and he waved 
his hand expressively. “ May I see the letter ? ” 

“ Certainly — certainly ! ” and Sir Morton in a great fluster 
passed it along. It was a very brief note and ran as follows : 

“Dear Sir Morton, — I quite forgot to tell you, when you 
and your friends dined with me the other day, that I am 
leaving home immediately and shall be away for the rest of 
the summer. Lady Wicketts and Miss Eosby are staying on 
at the Manor for a fortnight or three weeks, as the country 
air does them so much good. It will be very kind if you and 
Lord Roxmouth will call and see them as often as you can,— 


God’s Good Man 


419 


they are such dear kind people ! — and I am sure Miss Tabitha 
will be glad to have them near her as she already likes them 
so much. Anything you can do to give them pleasure while 
they are here, will be esteemed as a personal favour to myself. 
I am sorry not to have the time to call and say good-bye — but 
I am sure you will excuse ceremony. I shall have left before 
you receive this note. — With kind regards, sincerely yours, 

“ Maryllia Vancourt.” 

Roxmouth read this letter, first to himself, and then aloud 
to all at table. For a moment there was a silence of absolute 
stupefaction. 

“ Then she’s gone ! ” at last said Miss Tabitha, placidly 
nodding, while the suspicion of a malign smile crept round 
the hard corners of her mouth. 

“ Evidently ! ” And Roxmouth crumbled the bread beside 
his plate into fine shreds with a nervous, not to say vicious 
clench of his hand. 

He was inwardly furious. There is nothing so irritating to 
a man of his type as to be made ridiculous. Maryllia had done 
this. In the most trifling, casual, and ordinary way she had 
compelled him to look like a fool. All his carefully laid plans 
were completely upset, and he fancied that even Longford, his 
tool, to whom he had freely confided his wishes and intentions, 
was secretly laughing at him. To have plotted and contrived 
a stay at Badsworth Hall with the blusterous Pippitt in order 
to have the opportunity of crossing Maryllia’s path at every 
turn, and compromising her name with his in her own house 
and county, and then to find himself ‘ left/ with the civil sug- 
gestion that he should 6 call and see 9 the antique Sisters 
Gemini, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, was somewhat too 
much for his patience. The blow was totally unexpected, — the 
open slight to his amour propre sudden and keen. His very 
blood tingled under the lash of Maryllia’s disdain — she had 
carried a point against him, and he almost imagined he could 
hear the distant echo of her light mocking laughter. His 
brow reddened, — he gnawed his under-lip angrily, and sat 
mute, aware that. he had beexj tricked and foiled. 

Longford watched him narrowly and with something of dis- 
may, — for if this lordly patron, who, by his position alone, was 
able to push things on in certain quarters of the press, were to 
suddenly turn crusty and unreasonable, where would his, Long- 
ford’s, ‘ great literary light ’ be ? Quenched utterly like a rush- 
light in a gale! Sir Morton Pippitt during the uncomfortable 


420 


God’s Good Man 


pause of silence Had grown purple with suppressed' excitement 
He knew perfectly well, — because he had consented to it, — that 
his house had only been ‘ used ’ for Roxmouth’s purposes, and 
that he, personally, was of no more consideration to a man 
like the future Duke of Ormistoune than a landlord for the 
time being, whose little reckoning for entertainment would in 
due course be settled in some polite and ceremonious fashion. 
And he realised dolefully that his 4 distinguished ’ guest might, 
and probably would, soon take his departure from Badsworth 
Hall, that abode no longer being of any service to him. This 
meant annihilation to many of Sir Morton’s fondest hopes. 
He had set his heart on appearing at sundry garden-parties 
in the neighbourhood during the summer with Lord Roxmouth 
under his portly wing — he had meant to hurl Lord Roxmouth 
here, Lord Roxmouth there at all the less ‘ distinguished 9 
people around him, so that they should almost sink into the 
dust with shame because they had not had the honour of 
sheltering his lordship within their walls, — and he had ex- 
pected to add considerably to his own importance by ‘ helping 
on’ the desired union between Roxmouth Castle and the 
Yancourt millions. Now this dream was over, and he could 
willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else 
that came handy at the very name of Maryllia for her ‘im- 
pudence 9 as he called it, in leaving them all in the lurch. 

“ It will be quite easy to ascertain where she has gone,” — 
said Marius Longford presently, in soft conciliatory accents — • 
“Lady Wicketts will probably know, and Miss Fosby ” 

“Damn Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby! ” snapped out Sir 
Morton, this time without any apology — “ A couple of female 
donkeys ! ‘ Kind of me to call upon them ! 9 God bless my 

soul! I should think it would be kind! Nobody but a fool 
would go near them 99 

“ They are very pleasant, good women,” — said Miss Tabitha 
with severe serenity — “ Personally, I much prefer them to Miss 
Yancourt.” 

Sir Morton snorted contempt; Mr. Longford coughed dis- 
creetly. 

“ Miss Yancourt has not yet ripened sufficiently to bear 
comparison with Lady Wicketts,” — he said, smoothly — “ or 
with Miss Fosby. But I think, Miss Pqppitt, there is a great 
deal in what you say!” Miss Tabitha bowed, and smiled a 
vinegary smile. “Lady Wicketts has a fine mind — very fine! 
Her husband, Sir Thomas ” 

“ Oh never mind her husband ! ” blustered Sir Morton,— 


God’s Good Man 425 

u He’s dead. And a good job too — for himself. Now what’s 
to be done, my dear lord, eh ? — what’s to be done ? ” 

Roxmouth looked up and managed to force his usual con- 
ventional smile. 

“ Nothing!” 

“ Nothing ? Oh come, come ! That won’t do ! Faint heart 
never won fair lady — ha-ha-ha! God bless my soul! The 
course of true love never did run smooth — that’s the advice 
of what’s-his-name — Shakespeare. Ha-ha ! By the bye, what’s 
become of that poet acquaintance of yours, Longford ? 
Oughtn’t he to have known something about this? Didn’t 
you tell him to keep a sharp look-out on Maryllia Yan, eh ? ” 

Longford reddened slightly under his pale yellow skin. 
What a vulgar way Sir Morton had of putting things, to be 
sure! 

“ I certainly asked Mr. Adderley to let us know if there 
was anything in which we could possibly participate to give 
pleasure and entertainment to Miss Vancourt,” — he answered 
frigidly — “He seems to have ingratiated himself with both 
Miss Vancourt and her young friend Miss Bourne — I should 
have thought he would have been told of their intending 
departure.” 

“ You may depend he knows all about it ! ” said Sir Morton 
• — “He’s double-faced, that’s what he is! Poets always are. 
I hate ’em! Regular sneaks! — always something queer about 
their morals — look at Byron! — God bless my soul! — he ought 
to have been locked up — positively locked up, he-ha-ha ! 
We’ll come down on this Adderley — we’ll take him by surprise 
and cross-examine him — we’ll ask him why the devil he has 
played a double game ” 

“Pray do not think of such a thing!” — interrupted Rox- 
mouth, quietly — “I really doubt whether he knows any more 
than we dc. Maryllia — Miss Vancourt — is not of a character 
to confide her movements, even to a friend, — she has always 
been reticent ” He paused. 

“ And sly ! ” — said Miss Tabitha, finishing his sentence for 
him, “Very sly! The first time I ever saw Miss Vancourt I 
knew she was deceitful ! Her very look expresses it ! ” 

“ I’m afraid,” — murmured Roxmouth, — and then hesitating 
a moment, he raised his eyes with an affectation of great 
frankness — “ I’m really afraid you may be right. Miss 
Tabitha ! I had hoped that I should not have had to speak of 
a matter, — a very disagreeable matter which happened thr 
other night — but, under the circumstances, it may be as weft 


422 


God’s Good Man 


to mention it. You can perhaps imagine how distressing it 
has been to me — distressing and painful — and indeed incred- 
ible, — to discover the lady whom I have every right to con- 
sider almost my promised wife, entering into a kind of amor- 
ous entanglement down here with a clergyman ! ” 

Sir Morton bounced in his chair. 

“ God bless my soul ! A clergyman ? ” 

“A clergyman?” echoed Miss Tabitha, with sudden sharp- 
ness in her tone — “What clergyman do you mean?” 

“ Who should I mean ! ” And Roxmouth affected a some- 
what sad and forbearing demeanour — “ There is only one whc- 
appears to be welcome at the ManUr — the Reverend Johtt 
Walden.” 

Miss Tabitha turned a paler waxen yellow — Sir Morton shot 
forth a deep, dreadful and highly blasphemous oath. 

“That prig?” he roared, with a bull-like loudness and fury 
— “That high-and-mighty piece of damned superior clerical 
wisdom? God bless my soul! There must be some mistake 

9 > 

“ Yes surely ! ” — murmured Miss Tabitha, feeling the clutch 
of a deadly spite and fear at her heart, — for was not Walden 
her clergyman? — her choice of a husband? — the man she had 
resolved to wed sooner or later, even if she had to wait till 
he was senile, and did not know what he was doing when led 
to the altar? “Mr. Walden is not a man who would be easily 
allured ” 

“ Perhaps not,” — said Roxmouth, quietly — “ But I can 
hardly refuse to accept the witness of my own eyes and ears.” 
And, attended by an almost breathless silence on the part of 
his auditors, he related with an air of patient endurance and 
compassionate regret, his own account of the interview between 
Maryllia and Walden in the picture-gallery, exaggerating 
something here, introducing a suggestive insinuation there, 
suppressing the simplicity of the true facts, and inserting 
falsehood wherever convenient, till he had succeeded in plac- 
ing Walden’s good name at Miss Tabitha’s cat-like mercy 
for her to rend and pounce upon to the utmost extent of her 
own jaundiced rage and jealous venom. 

Nothing could equal or surpass Sir Morton’s amazement and 
wrath as he listened to the narration. His eyes seemed to lit- 
erally start out of his head,— his throat swelled visibly till a fat 
ridge of flesh lolled over the edge of his stiff shirt-collar, and he 
threw in various observations of his own with regard to Wal- 
den, such as ‘ Sniveling puppy!’ 'Canting rascal!’ 'Elderly 


God’s Good Man 


423 


humbug ! 7 ( Sneaking upstart/ which were quite in accordance 
with his native good taste and refinement of speech. And when 
at last his stock of expletives became, for the time being, 
exhausted, and when Miss Tabitha’s dumb viciousness had, 
like an invisible sculptor’s chisel, carved sudden deep lines in 
her face as fitting accompaniments to the deepening malice of 
her thoughts, they all rose from the luncheon table and went 
their several ways in their several moods of disconcerted con- 
fusion, impotence and vexation, in search of fresh means to 
gain new and unexpected ends. Eoxmouth, reluctantly yield- 
ing to the earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him 
into the village of St. Best, and made enquiries at the post- 
office as to whether Miss Vancourt’s sudden departure was 
known there, or whether any instructions had been left as to 
the forwarding of her letters. But the postmistress, Mrs. 
Tapple, breathing hard and curtseying profoundly to the 
c future Dook 7 declared she * ’adn’t heard nothink , 7 and ‘ ’adn’t 
7 ad no orders . 7 Miss Vancourt’s letters and telegrams all went 
up to the Manor as usual. Whereupon, still guided by the 
astute Longford, Eoxmouth so far obeyed Maryllia’s parting 
suggestion as to go and ‘ kindly call 7 upon Lady Wicketts and 
Miss Fosby at the Manor itself. The beautiful old house 
looked the same as usual; there were no shutters up, no blinds 
drawn in any of the windows, — nothing indicated absence on 
the part of the reigning mistress of the fair domain ; and even 
the dog Plato was comfortably snoozing according to daily 
custom, on the sun-baked flag-stones in the Tudor court. 
Primmins opened the door to them with his usual well-trained 
and imperturbable demeanour. 

“Miss Vancourt is not at home ? 77 began Eoxmouth ten- 
tatively. 

“Miss Vancourt has left for the Continent, my lord / 7 re- 
plied Primmins, sedately. 

Longford exchanged a swift glance with his patron. The 
latter gave a slight, weary shrug of his shoulders. 

“Miss Bourne,” — began Longford then. 

“ Miss Bourne and Mr. Gigg have also left,” said Primmins. 

“ I suppose Miss Vancourt went with them? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

This was baffling. 

“ Lady Wicketts is staying here, I believe,” — murmured 
Eoxmouth — “ Can I er ? ” 

“ Her ladyship has the neuralgy and is lying down, my 
lord,” and an acute observer might have noticed the tremor 


424 


God’s Good Man 


of a wink in Primmins’ eye “ Miss Posby is in the draw- 

ing-room.” 

With a profound sigh Roxmouth glanced at Longford. 
That gentleman smiled a superior smile. 

“We should like to see Miss Posby.” 

Primmins at once threw open the door more widely. 

“ This way, if you please ! ” 

In another moment they were ushered into the presence of 
Miss Fosby, who, laying aside her embroidery, rose with 
punctilious ceremony to receive them. 

“ Lady Wicketts is not well,” — she said, in tenderly lach- 
rymose accents — “Dear Lady Wicketts! She is always so 
good! — always thinking of other people and doing such kind 
things! — she fatigues herself, and she is so delicate — ah! — • 
so very delicate ! She is suffering from neuralgia, I am sorry 
to say ! ” 

“Don’t mention it,” — said Roxmouth, hastily — “We would 
not disturb her for the world! The fact is, we called to see 
Miss Vancourt ” 

“ Yes ? ” queried Miss Posby, gently, taking up her em- 
broidery again, and carefully setting her needle into the petal 
of a rosebud she was designing — “Dear girl! She left here 
yesterday.” 

“ Rather sudden, wasn’t it ? ” said Longford. 

Miss Posby looked up placidly, and smiled. She had a 
touch of humour about her as well as much * early Victorian 9 
sentiment, and she was just now enjoying herself. 

“I think not! Young women like change and travel. 
Maryllia has always been accustomed to go abroad in August. 
The first time Lady Wicketts and I ever met her, she was 
travelling with her aunt. Oh no, I don’t think it is at all 
sudden ! ” 

“Where has she gone?” asked Roxmouth, affecting as 
much ease and lightness of manner as he could in putting 
the question. 

Miss Fosby smiled a little more. 

“I really don’t know,” — she replied, with civil mildness — 
“I fancy she has no settled plans at all. She has kindly 
allowed Lady Wicketts and myself the use of the Manor for 
three weeks.” 

“ Till she returns?” suggested Longford. 

This time Miss Fosby laughed. 

“ Oh no ! When we leave it, the Manor is to be shut up 
again for quite a long time — probably till next summer.” 


God’s Good Man 


425 


“ Miss Bourne has gone with her friend, I suppose ? ” 

“ No,” — and Miss Fosby sought carefully among her em- 
broidery silks for some special tint of colour — “ Little Cicely 
and Monsieur Gigue, her master, went away together only 
this morning.” 

“Well, I suppose Miss Vancourt’s letters will he forwarded 
on somewhere ! ” — said Roxmouth, unguardedly. Miss Fosby’s 
back stiffened instantly. 

“Really, my lord, I know nothing about that,” — she said, 
primly — “ Nor should I even make it my business to enquire.” 

There was an awkward pause after this, and though Long- 
ford skilfully changed the subject of conversation to gener- 
alities, the rest of the interview was fraught with considerable 
embarrassment. Miss Fosby was not to be ‘ drawn/ She was 
distinctly ‘ old-fashioned/ — needless therefore to add that she 
was absolutely loyal to her absent friend and hostess. 

Leaving the Manor, Lord Roxmouth and his tame pussy 
sought for information in other quarters with equal futility. 
The agent, Mr. Stanways, ‘knew nothing/ His orders were 
to communicate all his business to Miss Vancourt’s solicitors 
in London. Finally the last hope failed them in Julian 
Adderley. They found that young gentleman as much taken 
aback as themselves by the news of Maryllia’s departure. He 
had been told nothing of it. A note from Cicely Bourne had 
been brought to him that morning by one of the gardeners 
at the Manor — and he showed this missive to both Roxmouth 
and Longford with perfect frankness. It merely ran : “ Good- 
bye Moon-calf! Am going away. No time to see you for a 
fond farewell! Hope you will be famous before I come back. 
Enclosed herewith is my music to your ‘Little Rose Tree/ 

Goblin.” 

This, with the accompanying manuscript score of the song 
alluded to was all the information Julian could supply, — and 
his own surprise and consternation at the abrupt and un- 
expected termination of his pleasant visits to the Manor, were 
too genuine to be doubted. 

“ It is positively remote ! ” he said, staring vaguely at his 
visitors — “Too remote for realisation! Mr. Walden has gone 
away too.” 

Roxmouth started. 

“Mr. Walden?” 

“Yes.” And Julian looked surprised at the other’s hasty 
tone, — “But only to see his Bishop. He will preach here as 
usual on Sunday.” 


426 


God’s Good Man 


“ Are you sure of that ? ” asked Longford, sharply scanning 
Julian’s flabby face, green-grey eyes and ruddy locks with 
sudden suspicion — “ Or is it only a blind?” 

“A blind?” And Adderley lifted his shoulders to the 
lobes of his ears and spread out his hands in flat amazement, 
— “What do you mean, most obscure Marius? For what 
purpose should a blind be used? Mr. Walden is the last 
person in the world to wish to cover his intentions, or disguise 
his motives. He is the sincerest man I ever met ! ” 

Longford glanced at his patron for instructions. Was 
Adderley to be told of the ‘ amorous entanglement ’ of Miss 
Yancourt? Roxmouth frowned at him warningly, and he 
understood his cue. 

“ Well, if you hear any news from the Manor, you can 
let us know,” — he said — “ You are quite aware of the posi- 
tion ” 

“Quite!” murmured Julian, lazily. 

“ And if you want to get on, you will hardly find a better 
friend than Lord Roxmouth,” — pursued Longford, with mean- 
ing emphasis — “ He has made many a man famous ! ” 

“ Oh, my dear Longford ! — pray do not speak of these 
things ! ” — interrupted Roxmouth, with an air of gentlemanly 
humility. “ Merit always commands my interest and atten- 
tion — and Mr. Adderley’s talent as a poet naturally — ! ” 

Here he waved his hand and allowed the sentence to finish 
itself. 

Julian looked at him thoughtfully. 

“ Thanks ! I think I see what you mean ! ” — he said slowly 
— “ But I’m afraid I am not a useful person. I never have 
been useful in my life — neither to myself, nor to anybody else. 
To be useful would be new — and in some eases, fresh,” — 
here he smiled dubiously — “ Yes — very fresh ! — and delightful ! 
But I fear — I very much fear that I shall always ‘ lack ad- 
vancement ’ as Hamlet says — I can never accommodate myself 
to other people’s plans. You will excuse my inabilities ? ” 

Roxmouth flushed angrily. He understood. So did Marius 
Longford — resolving in his own mind that whenever, if ever, 
a book of poems appeared by Julian Adderley, he would so 
maul and pounce upon it in the critical reviews, that there 
should not be a line of it left unmangled or alive. They 
parted with him, however, on apparently excellent terms. 

Returning to Badsworth Hall they found no further news 
awaiting them than they had themselves been able to obtain. 
Sir Morton’s fussy enquiries had brought no result — Miss 


God’s Good Man 


427 


Tabitha had scoured the neighbourhood in her high dogcart, 
calling on the Ittlethwaites and Mandeville Porehams, all in 
vain. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had heard anything. 
The sudden exit of Maryllia from the scene took everyone by 
surprise. And when Miss Pippitt began to hiss a scandalous 
whisper concerning John Walden, and a possible intrigue 
between him and the Lady of the Manor, the * county’ sat 
up amazed. Here indeed was food for gossip! Here was 
material for * local’ excitement! 

“ Old Tabitha’s jealous ! — that’s what it is ! ” said Bruce 
Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, to his maiden sisters, — 
“ Ha-ha-ha ! Old green-and-yellow Tabitha is afraid she’ll 
lose her pet parson ! Dammit ! A pretty woman always starts 
this kind of nonsense. If it wasn’t the clergyman, it would 
be somebody else — perhaps Sir Morton himself — or perhaps 
me ! Ha-ha-ha ! Dammit ! ” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it ! ” declared the eldest Miss 
Ittlethwaite, — “ I do not attend Mr. Walden’s services myself, 
but I am quite sure he is an excellent man — and a perfect 
gentleman. Nothing that Tabitha Pippitt can ever say, will 
move me on that point ! ” 

“ I always had my suspicions ! ” — said Mrs. Mandeville 
Poreham, severely, when she in her turn heard the news — 
“I heard that Miss Vancourt had insisted — positively insisted 
on Mr. Walden’s visiting her nearly every day, and I 
trembled for him ! My girls have gone quite crazy about Miss 
Vancourt ever since they met her at Sir Morton Pippitt’s 
garden-party, but 1 have never changed my opinion. . My 
poor mother always taught me to be firm in my convictions. 
And Miss Vancourt is a designing person. There’s no doubt 
©f it. She affects the innocence of a child — but I doubt 
whether I have ever met anyone quite so worldly and artful ! ” 

So the drops of petty gossip began to trickle,— -very slowly 
at first, and then faster and faster, as is their habitude in the 
effort to wear away the sparkling adamant of a good name and 
unblemished reputation. The Reverend Putwood Leveson, 
vengefully brooding over the wrongs which he considered ho 
had sustained at the hands of Walden, as well as Julian 
Adderley, rode to and fro on his bicycle from morn till dewy 
eye, perspiring profusely, and shedding poisonous . slanders 
almost as freely as he exuded melted tallow from his moun- 
tainous flesh, aware that by so doing he wap not only ingratiat- 
ing himself with the Pippitts, but also with Lord Roxmouth, 
through whose influence he presently hoped to ‘get a thing 


God’s Good Man 


428 

or two/ Mordaunt Appleby, the Riversford brewer, and his 
insignificant spouse, irritated at never having had the chance 
to ‘ receive ’ Lord Roxmouth, were readily pressed into the 
same service and did their part of scandal-mongering with 
right good-will and malignant satisfaction. And in less than 
forty-eight hours’ time there was no name too bad for the 
absent Maryllia; she was f mixed up’ with John Walden,— 
she had ‘ tried to entangle him ’ — there had been ‘ a scene with 
him at the Manor,’ — she was ‘ forward,’ ‘ conceited ’ — and 
utterly lost to any sense of propriety. Why did she not marry 
Lord Roxmouth? Why, indeed! Many people could tell if 
they chose ! Ah yes ! — and with this, there were sundry shak- 
ings of the head and shruggings of the shoulders which im- 
plied more than whole volumes of libel. 

But while the county talked, the village listened, sagaciously 
incredulous of mere rumour, quiescent in itself and perfectly 
satisfied that whoever else was wrong, ‘Passon Walden’ in 
everything he did, said, or thought, was sure to be right. 
Wherefore, until they heard their ‘ man o’ God’s ’ version of 
the stories that were being so briskly circulated, they reserved 
their own opinions. The infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff 
was not more securely founded in the Roman Catholic Ritual 
than the faith of St. Rest in the ( gospel according to John/ 


XXVII 


jyjEAN while Walden himself, ignorant of all the ‘local’ 
excitement so suddenly stirred up in his tiny king- 
dom, had arrived on a three days’ visit at the house, or to 
put it more correctly, at the palace, of his friend Bishop 
Brent. It was, in strict reality a palace, having been in the 
old days one of the residences of Henry VII. Much of the 
building had been injured during the Cromwellian period, 
and certain modern repairs to its walls had been somewhat 
clumsily executed, but it still retained numerous fine old 
mullioned windows, and a cloistered court of many sculptured 
arches still eminently beautiful, though grey and crumbling 
under the touch of the melancholy vandal. Time. The 
Bishop’s study had formerly been King Henry’s audience 
chamber, and possessed a richly-wrought ceiling of interlaced 
oak rafters, and projecting beams smoothly polished at the 
ends and painted with royal emblems, from which projections 
no doubt, in early periods, many a banner of triumph had 
floated and many a knightly pennon. Bishop Brent was fond 
of this room, and carefully maintained its ancient character 
in the style of its furniture and general surroundings. The 
wide angle-nook and high carved chimney-piece, supported by 
two sculptured angel-figures of heroic size, was left unmod- 
ernised, and in winter the gaping recess was filled with great 
logs blazing cheerily as in olden times, but in summer, as 
now, it served as a picturesque setting for masses of rare 
flowers which, growing in pots, or cut freshly and set in crystal 
vases, were grouped together with the greatest taste and 
artistic selection of delicate colouring, forming, as it seemed, a 
kind of blossom-wreathed shrine, above which, against the 
carved chimney itself, hung a wonderfully impressive picture 
of the Virgin and Child. Placed below this, and slightly 
towards the centre of the room, was the Bishop’s table-desk 
and chair, arranged so that whenever he raised his head from 
his work, the serene soft eyes of Mary, Blessed among 
Women, should mystically meet his own. And here just now 
he sat at evening, deep in conversation with John Walden, 
who with the perfect unselfishness which was an ingrained 

429 


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430 

part of his own nature, had for the time put aside or forgotten 
all his own little troubles, in order to listen to the greater 
ones of his friend. He had been shocked at the change 
wrought in seven years on Brent’s form and features. Always 
thin, he had now become so attenuated as to have reached 
almost a point of emaciation,— his dark eyes, sunk far back 
under his shelving brows, blazed with a feverish brilliancy 
which gave an almost unearthly expression to his pale drawn 
features, and his hand, thin, long, and delicate as a woman’s, 
clenched and unclenched itself nervously when he spoke, with 
an involuntary force of which he was himself unconscious. 

“You have not aged much, Walden!” he said, thought- 
fully regarding his old college chum’s clear and open 
countenance with a somewhat sad smile — ■“ Your eyes are the 
same blue eyes of the boy that linked his arm through mine 
so long ago and walked with me through the sleepy old streets 
of 1 Alma Mater ! ’ That time seems quite close to me some- 
times — and again sometimes far away — dismally, appallingly, 
far away ! ” 

He sighed. Walden looked at him a little anxiously, but 
for the moment said nothing. 

“ You give me no response,” — continued Brent, with sudden 
querulousness — •“ Since you arrived we have been talking 
nothing but generalities and Church matters. Heavens, how 
sick I am of Church matters ! Yet I know you see a change 
in me. I am sure you do — and you will not say it. Now you 
never were secretive — you never said one thing and meant 
another — so speak the truth as you have always done! I am 
changed, am I not ? ” 

“You are,” — replied Walden, steadily — “But I cannot tell 
how, or in what way. You look ill and worn out. You are 
overworked and overwrought — hut I think there is something 
else at the root of the evil; — something that has happened 
during the last seven years. You are not quite the man you 
were when you came to consecrate my church at St. Rest.” 

“ St. Rest ! ” repeated the Bishop, musingly — “ What a 
sweet name it is — what a still sweeter suggestion! Rest — 
rest ! — and a saint’s rest too ! — that perfect rest granted to all 
the martyrs for Christ! — how safe and peaceful! — how sure 
and glorious! Would that such rest were mine! But I see 
nothing ahead of me but storm and turmoil, and stress of 
anguish and heartbreak, ending in — Nothingness!” 

Walden bent a little more forward and looked his friend 
full in the eyes. 


God’s Good Man 


43i 

“ What is wrong, Harry ? ” he asked, with exceeding gen- 
tleness. 

At the old schoolboy name of bygone years, Brent caught 
and pressed his hand with strong fervour. A smile lighted 
his eyes. 

“ John, my boy, everything is wrong! ” he said — “ As wrong 
as ever my work at college was, before you set it right. Do 
you think I forget! Everything is wrong, I tell you! I am 
wrong, — my thoughts are wrong, — and my conscience leaves 
me no peace day or night ! I ought not to be a Bishop — for I 
I feel that the Church itself is wrong ! ” 

John sat quiet for a minute. Then he said — 

“ So it is in many ways. The Church is a human attempt 
to build humanity up on a Divine model, and it has its human 
limitations. But the Divine model endures ! ” 

Brent threw himself back in his chair and closed his eyes. 

“ The Divine model endures — yes! ” he murmured — “ The 
Divine foundation remains firm, but the human building 
totters and is insecure to the point of utter falling and de- 
struction ! ” Here, opening his eyes, he gazed dreamily at 
the pictured face of the Madonna above him. “Walden, it is 
useless to contend with facts, and the facts are, that the 
masses of mankind are as unregenerate at this day as ever 
they were before Christ came into the world! The Church is 
powerless to stem the swelling tide of human crime and mis- 
ery. The Church in these days has become merely a harbour 
of refuge for hypocrites who think to win conventional repute 
with their neighbours, by affecting to believe in a religion not 
one of whose tenets they obey! Blasphemy, rank blasphemy, 
Walden! It is bad enough in all conscience to cheat one’s 
neighbour, but an open attempt to cheat the Creator of the 
Universe is the blackest crime of all, though it be unnamed in 
the criminal calendar ! ” 

He uttered these words with intense passion, rising from 
his seat, and walking up and down the room as he spoke. 
Walden watched his restless passing to and fro, with a wistful 
look in his honest eyes. Presently he said, smiling a little — 
“You are my Bishop — and I should not presume to differ 
from you, Brent! You must instruct me , — not I you! Yet 

if I may speak from my own experience ” 

“You may and you shall!” — replied Brent, swiftly — “But 
think for a moment, before you speak, of what that experience 
has been! One great grief has clouded your life — the loss of 
your sister. After that, what has been your lot? A handful 


432 


God’s Good Man 


of simple souls set under your charge, in the loveliest of little 
villages, — souls that love you, trust you and obey you. 
Compared to this, take my daily life! An over-populated 
diocese — misery and starvation on all sides, — men working for 
mere pittances, — women prostituting themselves to obtain food 
— children starving — girls ruined in their teens — and over it 
all, my wretched self, a leading representative of the Church 
which can do nothing to remedy these evils ! And worse than 
all, a Church in which some of the clergy themselves who 
come under my rule and dominance are more dishonourable 
and dissolute than many of the so-called ‘ reprobates ’ of 
society whom they are elected to admonish! I tell you, 
Walden, I have some men under my jurisdiction whom I 
should like to see soundly flogged! — only I am powerless to 
order the castigation — and some others who ought to be serv- 
ing seven years in penal servitude instead of preaching virtue 
to people a thousand times more virtuous than themselves ! ” 

“ I quite believe that! ” said Walden, smiling — “ I know one 
of them ! ” 

The Bishop glanced at him, and laughed. 

“ You mean Putwood Leveson ? ” he said — “ He seems a 
mischievous fool — but I don’t suppose there is any real harm 
in him, is there ? ” 

“Beal harm?” — and John flared up in a blaze of wrath — 
“ He is the most pernicious scoundrel that ever masqueraded 
in the guise of a Christian ! ” 

The Bishop paused in his walk up and down, and clasping 
his hands behind his back, an old habit of his, looked quiz- 
zically at his friend. A smile, kindly and almost boyish, 
lightened the grey pallor of his worn face. 

“Why, John!” he said — “you are actually in a temper! 
Your mental attitude is evidently that of squared fists and 
* Come on ! ’ What has roused the slumbering lion, eh ? ” 

“It doesn’t need a lion to spring at Leveson,” — said Wal- 
den, contemptuously — “ A sheep would do it ! The tamest cur 
that ever crawled would have spirit enough to make a dash 
for a creature so unutterably mean and false and petty! I 
may as well admit to you at once that I myself nearly struck 
him ! ” 

“You did?” And Bishop Brent’s grave dark eyes flashed 
with a sudden suspicion of laughter. 

“I did. I know it was not Churchman-like, — I know it 
was a case of ‘ kicking against the pricks.’ But Leveson’s 


God’s Good Man 


433 

‘ pricks ’ are too much like hog’s bristles for me to endure with 
patience ! ” 

The Bishop assumed a serious demeanour. 

“ Come, come, let me hear this out ! ” he said — “ Do you 
mean to tell me that you — you, John — actually struck a brother 
minister ? ” 

“ No — I do not mean to tell you anything of the kind, my 
Lord Bishop!” answered Walden, beginning to laugh. “I 
say that I ‘ nearly’ struck him, — not quite! Someone else 
came on the scene at the critical moment, and did for me 
what I should certainly have done for myself had I been left 
to it. I cannot say I am sorry for the impulse ! 99 

“ It sounds like a tavern brawl,” — said the Bishop, shaking 
his head dubiously — “ or a street fight. So unlike you, 
Walden! What was it all about?” 

“ The fellow was slandering a woman,” — replied Walden, 
hotly — “ Poisoning her name with his foul tongue, and pollut- 
ing it by his mere utterance — contemptible brute! I should 
like to have horsewhipped him ” 

“ Stop, stop ! ” interrupted the Bishop, stretching out his 
thin long white hand, on which one single amethyst set in a 
plain gold ring, shone with a pale violet fire — “ I am not sure 
that I quite follow you, John! What woman is this?”. 

Despite himself, a rush of colour sprang to Walden’s brows. 
But he answered quite quietly. 

“Miss Vancourt, — of Abbot’s Manor.” 

“Miss Vancourt!” Bishop Brent looked, as he felt, utterly 
bewildered. “Miss Vancourt! My dear Walden, you sur- 
prise me! Did I not write to you — do you not know ” 

“ Oh, I know all that is reported of her,” — said John, 
quickly — “And I remember what you wrote. But it’s a mis- 
take, Brent! In fact, if you will exonerate me for speaking 
bluntly, it’s a lie ! There never was a gentler, sweeter woman 
than Maryllia Vancourt, — and perhaps there never was one 
more basely or more systematically calumniated ! ” 

The Bishop took a turn up to the farther end of the room. 
Then he came back and confronted Walden with an authori- 
tative yet kindly air. 

“ Look me straight in the face, John! ” 

John obeyed. There was a' silence, while Brent scanned 
slowly and with appreciative affection the fine intellectual 
features, brave eyes, and firm, yet tender mouth of the man 
whom he had, since the days of their youth together, held 
dearest in his esteem among all other men he had ever known, 


434 


God’s Good Man 


while Walden, in his turn, bore the sad and searching gaze 
without flinching. Then the Bishop laid one hand gently on 
his shoulder. 

“ So it has come, John!” he said. 

Then and then only the brave eyes fell, — then and then 
only the firm mouth trembled. But Walden was not the man 
to shirk any pain or confusion to himself in matters of 
conscience. 

“ I suppose it has ! ” he answered, simply. 

The Bishop sat down, and, seemingly out of long habit, 
raised his eyes to the blandly smiling Virgin and Child above 
him. 

“I am sorry! ” — he murmured — “John, my dear old fellow, 
I am very sorry ” 

“Why should you be sorry?” broke out Walden, impetu- 
ously, “ There is nothing to be sorry for, except that I am a 
fool ! But I knew that long ago, even if you did not ! ” — 
and he forced a smile — “Don’t be sorry for me, Brent! — I’m 
not in the least sorry for myself. Indeed, if I tell you the 
whole truth, I believe I rather like my own folly. It does 
nobody any harm ! And after all it is not absolutely a world’s 
wonder that a decaying tree should, even in its decaying 
process, be aware of the touch of spring. It should not make 
the tree unhappy ! ” 

The Bishop raised his eyes. They were full of a deep 
melancholy. 

“We are not trees — we are men ! ” he said — “ And as men, 
God has made us all aware of the love of woman, — the irresist- 
ible passion that at one time or another makes havoc or glory 
©f our lives! It is the direst temptation on earth. Worst of 
all and bitterest it is when love comes too late, — too late, 
John! — I say in your case, it comes too late! ” 

John sighed and smiled. 

“ Love — if it has come to me at all — is never too late,” — he 
said with quiet patience, — “ My dear Brent don’t you under- 
stand? This little girl — this child — for she is nothing more 
than that to a man of my years — has slipped into my life by 
chance, as it were, like a stray sunbeam — no more! I feel 
her brightness — her warmth — her vitality — and my soul is 
conscious of an animation and gladness whenever she is near, 
of which she is the sole cause. But that is all. Her pretty 
ways — her utter loneliness, — are the facts of her existence 
which touch me to pity, and I would see her cared for and 
protected, — but I know myself to be too old and too unworthy 


God’s Good Man 


435 


to so care for and protect her. I want her to be happy, but 
I am fully conscious that I can never make her so. Would 
you call this kind of chill sentiment 4 love ’ ? ” 

Brent regarded him steadfastly. 

44 Yes, John! I think I should! — yes, I certainly should call 
4 this chill sentiment ’ love ! And tell me — have you never 
got out of your depth in the water of this 4 chill sentiment/ 
or found yourself battling for dear life against an outbreak 
of volcanic fire ? ” 

Walden was silent. 

44 I never thought,” — continued the Bishop, rather sorrow- 
fully , — 44 when I wrote to you about the return of Kobert 
Vancourt’s daughter to her childhood’s home, that she would 
in any serious way interfere with the peace of your life, John! 
I told you just what I had heard — no more. I have never 
seen the girl. I only know what people say of her. And that 
is not altogether pleasing.” 

“Do you believe what people say?” interrupted Walden, 
suddenly , — 44 Is it not true that when a woman is pretty, 
intelligent, clean-souled and pure-minded, and as unlike the 
rest of 4 society’ women as she can well be, she is slandered 
for having the very virtues her rivals do not possess ? ” 

44 Quite true ! ” — said Brent — 44 and quite common. It is 
always the old story — 4 Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as 
snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’ Do not imagine for a 
moment, John, that I am going to run the risk of losing your 
friendship by repeating anything that may have been said 
against the reputation or the character of Miss Vancourt. I 
have always prayed that no woman might ever come between 
us,” — and here a faint tinge of colour warmed the pallor of 
his face — 44 And, so far, I fancy the prayer has been granted. 
And I do not think that this — this — shall we call it glamour, 
John? — this glamour of the imagination and the senses, will 
overcome you in any detrimental way. I cannot picture you as 
the victim of a 4 society ’ siren ! ” 

John smiled. A vision rose up before his eyes of a little 
figure in sparkling white draperies — a figure that bent appeal- 
ingly towards him, while a soft childlike voice said — 4 I’m 
sorry! Will you forgive me?’ The tender lines round his 
mouth deepened and softened at the mental picture. 

44 She is not a society siren,” — he said, gently — “Poer 
little soul! She is a mere woman, needing what woman best 
thrives upon — love!” 


God’s Good Man 


436 

"Well, she has been loved and sought in marriage for at 
least three years by Lord Roxmouth,” — said the Bishop. 

“ Has she been loved and sought, or her aunt’s millions ? ” 
queried Walden — “ That is the point at issue. But my dear 
Brent, do not let us waste time in talking over this little folly 
of mine — for I grant you it is folly. I’m not sorry you have 
found it out, for in any case I had meant to make a clean 
breast of it before we parted,” 1 — he hesitated — then looked up 
frankly — “I would rather you spoke no more of it, Harry! 
I’ve made my confession. I admit I nearly struck Leveson 
for slandering an innocent and defenseless woman, — and I 
believe you’ll forgive me for that. Next, I own that though I 
am getting into the sere and yellow leaf, I am still conscious 
of a heart, — and that I feel a regretful yearning at times for 
the joys I have missed out of my life — and you’ll forgive me 
for that too, — I know you will ! For the rest, draw a curtain 
over this little weakness of mine, will you? I don’t want to 
speak of it — I want to fight it and conquer it.” 

The Bishop stretched out a hand and caught Walden’s in a 
close grasp. 

“ Right ! ” — he said — “ Do that, and you will do well ! It 
is all a question of fighting and conquering, or — being con- 
quered. But you will never give in, John! You are not the 
man to yield to the wiles of the devil. For there is a devil! — 
I am sure of it ! ” And his dark eyes flashed with a sudden 
wild light. “ A cozening, crafty, lurking devil, that sets 
temptation before us in such varied and pleasing forms that it 
is difficult — sometimes impossible — to tell which is right and 
which is wrong! Walden, we must escape from this devil — • 
we must escape ! ” 

He sprang up with an impulsive quickness which startled 
Walden, and began to pace up and down the room again. 

“ A mocking devil,” — he said — “ a lying devil ! — whispering 
from morning till evening, and from evening till morning, 
doubts of God! Doubts whether He, the Creator of worlds, 
really exists, — doubts as to whether He, or It, is not some huge 
blind, deaf Force, grinding its way on through limitless and 
eternal Production and Reproduction to one end, — Annihila- 
tion! Walden, you must now hear my confession! These 
doubts are driving me mad! I cannot bear the thought of 
the whirl of countless universes, immeasurable solar systems, 
crammed with tortured life for which there seems to be no 
hope, no care, no rescue, no future! I am unable to preach 
or to feel comfort for the human race! The very tragedy of 


God’s Good Man 


437 


the Cross only brings me to one result — that Truth is always 
crucified. The world prefers Falsehood. So much so indeed 
that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super- 
structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered 
Truth. I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of 
resigning my bishopric. So I have. My spirit turns to 
Home ! ” 

“Rome!” cried Walden — “What, you, Brent! — you think 
of going over to Rome? What strange fantasy has seized 
you ? ” 

“ Rome,” said Brent, slowly, stopping in his restless walk— 
“ is the Mother of Creeds — the antique Muse of the world’s 
history! Filled with the blood of martyrs, hallowed by the 
memories of saints, she is, she must always be, supreme in 
matters of faith — or superstition ! ” And he smiled, — a wan 
and sorrowful smile — ■“ Or even idolatry, if you will ! Emotion- 
alism, — sensationalism in religion — these the craving soul 
must have, and these Rome gives! We must believe, — mark 
you, Walden ! — we must positively believe that the Creator of all 
Universes was moved to such wrath against the helpless human 
creature He had made, that he cursed that creature forever for 
merely eating, like a child, fruit which had been forbidden! 
And after that we must believe everything else that has since 
followed in the track of the Woman, the Serpent and the 
Tree. Now in the Church of England I find I cannot believe 
these things — in the Church of Rome I will believe, because 
I must ! I will humble myself in dust and ashes, and accept 
all — all. Anything is better than Nothingness! I will be 
the lowest of lay brethren, and in solitude and silence, make 
atonement for my unbelief. It is the only way, Walden! — 
for me, it is the only way ! To Her ! ” And he pointed up 
to the picture of the Virgin and Child — “To Her, my vows! 
As Woman, she will pity me — as Woman, she can be loved ! ” 

Walden heard this wild speech without any word or gesture 
of interruption. Then, raising his eyes to the picture Brent 
thus apostrophised, he said, quietly — 

“ When did you have that painted, Brent ? ” 

A sudden change came over the Bishop’s features. He 
looked as though startled by some vague terror. Then he 
answered, slowly: 

“ Some years ago — in Florence. Why do you ask ? It is 
a copy ” 

“Of her likeness — yes!” said Walden, softly — “I saw 
that at once. You had it done, of course! She was beautiful 


God’s Good Man 


438 

and good — she died young. I know! But you have no right 
to turn your personal passion and grief into a form of worship, 
Harry ! ” 

The Bishop gazed at him fixedly and solemnly. 

“ You do not know,” — he murmured — “ You have not seen 
what I have seen! She has come to me lately — she, who 
died so long ago! — she has come to me night after night, and 
she has told me to pray for her — 4 pray ’ she says — ‘ pray that 
I may help to save your soul ! ’ And I must surely do as she 
bids. I must get away from this place — away from this city 
of turmoil and wickedness, into some quieter corner of the 
world, — some monastic retreat where I may end my days in 
peace, — I cannot fight my devils here — they are too strong for 
me! ” 

“They will be too strong for you anywhere, if you are a 
coward!” — said Walden, impetuously. “Brent, I thought 
you had gotten the victory over this old despair of yours long 
ago ! I thought you had made the memory of the woman you 
loved a noble spur to noble actions! I never dreamed that it 
would be possible for you to brood silently on your sorrow till 
you made it a cause of protest against God’s will! And worst 
and strangest of all is this frenzied idea of yours to fly to the 
Church of Home for shelter from yourself and your secret 
misery, and there give yourself over to monasticism and a 
silent, idolatrous worship, — not of Mary, the Mother of Christ, 
— but of the mere picture of the woman you loved! And 
you would pray to that ? — you would kneel before that? — you 
would pass long hours of fasting and vigil, gazing at that face, 
till, like the ‘ stigmata/ it is almost outlined in blood upon 
your heart? My dear Brent, is it possible your brain is so 
shaken and your soul so feeble that you must needs seek 
refuge in a kind of half-spiritual, half-sensuous passion, which 
is absolute rank blasphemy?” 

At this the Bishop raised his head with an air of imperious 
authority. 

“ I cannot permit ! ” he said, in unsteady accents 

“ You have no right to speak to me in such a tone — it is not 
your place ” 

Then, suddenly, his voice broke, and throwing himself into 
his chair, he dropped his head forward on the desk and covered 
it with his hands in an attitude of the utmost abandonment 
and dejection. The moisture rose to Walden’s eyes, — he 
knew the great tragedy of his friend’s life — all comprised in 
one brief, romantic episode of the adoring love, and sudden 


God’s Good Man 


439 


loss of a beautiful woman drowned by accident in her own 
pleasure-boat on the very eve of her marriage with him, — and 
he knew that just as deep and ardent as the man’s passion had 
been, so deep and ardent was his sorrow — a sorrow that could 
never be consoled. And John sat silent, deeply moved in 
himself, and ever and anon glancing upwards at the exquisite 
face of the painted Virgin above him, — the face of the dead 
girl whom her lover had thus sanctified. Presently Brent 
raised his head, — his face was white and worn — his eyes were 
wet. 

“ Forgive me, John! ” he said — “I have been working hard 
of late, and my nerves are unstrung. And — I cannot, I cannot 
forget her ! And what is more awful and terrible to me than any- 
thing is that I cannot forgive God ! ” He uttered these words in 
an awed whisper. “ I cannot ! I bear the Almighty a grudge 
for wrenching her life away from mine ! Of what use was it to 
be so cruel? Of what purpose to kill one so young? If God is 
omnipotent, God could have saved her. But He let her die! 
I tell you, Walden, that ever since I have been Bishop of this 
diocese, I have tried to relieve sorrow and pain whenever I 
have met with it — I have striven to do my duty, hoping against 
hope that perhaps God would teach me — would explain the 
why and wherefore of so much needless agony to His creatures 
— and that by discovering reasons for the afflictions of others, 
I should learn to become reconciled to my own. But no! — 
nothing has been made clear! I have seen innocent women 
die in the tortures of the damned — while their drunke* 
husbands have lived to carouse over their coffins. Children, — 
mere babes — are afflicted with diseases for which often no 
cause can be assigned and no cure discovered — while over the 
whole sweltering mass of human helplessness and ignorance. 
Death stalks triumphant, — and God, though called upon for 
rescue with prayers and tears, withdraws Himself in clouds of 
impenetrable silence. It is all hopeless, useless, irremediable! 
That is why my thoughts turn to Home — I say, let me believe 
in something, if it be only a fairy tale! Let me hear grand 
music mounting to heaven, even if human words cannot reach 
so high ! — let me think that guardian angels exist, even if there 
is nothing in space save a blind Chance spawning life particles 
uselessly, — let my soul and senses feel the touch of something, 
higher, vaster, purer and better than what the Church of 
England calls Christianity at this present day ! ” 

“ And that Something higher, vaster, purer and better , — 
would you call it the Church of Rome? ” asked Walden. 




440 


God’s Good Man 


“ In suggestion, — in emotion and poetic inspiration, yes I « 
said Brent — “ In theory and m practice, no ! ” 

There was a pause. Walden sat for a few moments absorbed 
in anxious thought. Then he looked up with a cheerful air.. 

“ Harry, ” he said — “Will you do me a favour? Promise 
that you will postpone the idea of seceding, or as you put it, 

* returning ’ to Home, for six months. Will you? At the end 
of that time we’ll discuss it again.” 

The Bishop looked uneasy. 

“ I would rather do what has to be done at once,” — he 
said. 

“ Then I must talk to you straightly,” — continued John, 
bracing himself up, and squaring his shoulders resolutely — “ I 
must forget that you are my Bishop, and speak just as naan to 
man. All the facts of the case can be summed up in one 
word — Selfishness ! Pure Selfishness, Harry ! — and I never 
thought I should have had to convict you of it ! ” 

Brent drew himself slowly up in his chair. 

“ Selfishness ! ” he echoed, dreamily — “I can take 
anything from you, John! — I did at college, — but — • 
selfishness ” 

“Selfishness!” repeated John, firmly — “You have had to 
suffer a grief — a great grief, — and because it was so sudden, so 
tragic and overwhelming, you draw a mourning veil of your 
own across the very face of God ! You try to rule your diocese 
by the measure of your own rod of affliction. And, finding that 
nothing is clear to you, because of your own obstructive spirit, 
you would set up a fresh barrier between yourself and Eternal 
Wisdom, by deserting your post here, and separating yourself 
from all the world save the shadow of the woman you yourself 
loved! Harry, my dear old friend, unless I had heard this 
from your own lips, I should never have believed it of you ! ” 

Brent sat heavily in his chair, sunk in a brooding 
melancholy. 

“ ‘ The heart knoweth its own bitterness ! ’ ” — he murmured 
wearily — “ Your reproaches are just, — I know I deserve them, 
but they do not rouse me. They do not stir one pulse in my 
soul ! What have 1 learned of Eternal Wisdom ? — what have 1 
seen? Nothing but cruelty upon cruelty dealt out, not to the 
wicked, but to the innocent! And because I protest against 
this, you call my spirit an obstructive one ? — well ! — it may be 
so ! But, W alden, you have never loved ! — you have never felt all 
your life rush like a river to the sea of passion ! — not low, de- 
basing passion, but passion born of vitality, ardour, truth, hope, 


God’s Good Man 


44i 


Sympathy ! — such emotion as most surely palpitates through the 
whole body of the natural creation, else there would be naught 
created. God Himself — if there be a God — must be conscious 
of Love ! Do we not say ; ‘ God is Love ’ ? — and this too while 
we suffer beneath His heavy chastisements which are truely 
more like Hate! I repeat, Walden, you have never loved, — 
till now perhaps — and even now you are scarcely conscious 
of the hidden strength of your own feelings. But suppose — 
just for the sake of argument — suppose this ‘ little girl ’ as you 
call her, Maryllia Yancourt, were to die suddenly, would you 
not, as you express it, 1 draw a mourning veil of your own 
across the face of God ’ ? ” 

Walden started as though suddenly wounded. ‘If Maryllia 
were to die ! 9 He shuddered as the mere thought passed 
across his brain. 1 If Maryllia were to die ! 9 Why then — 
then the world would be a blank — there would be no more sun- 
shine! — no roses! — no songs of birds! — nothing of fairness 
or pleasure left in life — not for him, whatever there might be 
for others. Was it possible that her existence meant so much 
to him? Yes, it meant so much! — it had come to mean so 
much! He felt his old friend’s melancholy eyes upon him, 
and looking up met their searching scrutiny with a serious and 
open frankness. 

“ Honestly, I think I should die myself, or lose my 
senses ! ” — he said — “ And honestly, I hardly realised this, — 
which is just as much selfishness on my part as any of which I 
hastily accused you, — till you put it to me. I will not profess 
to have a stoicism beyond mortal limits, Harry, nor should I 
expect such from you. But I will say, that despite our human 
weakness, we must have courage ! — we are not men without it. 
And whether faith stands fast or falters, whether God seems 
far off or very near, we must face and fight our destiny — not 
run away from it! You want to run away,” — and he smiled 
gravely — “or rather, just in the present mood of yours you 
think of doing so — but I believe it is only a mood — and that 
you will not, after putting your hand to the plough, turn back 
because of the aridness or ungratefulness of the soil, — that 
would not be like you. If one must needs perish, it is better 
to perish at one’s post of duty than desert over to the enemy.” 

“ I am not sure that Borne is an enemy ; ” — said the Bishop, 
musingly. 

To this Walden gave no reply, and the conversation fell 
into other channels. But, during the whole time of his visit, 
John was forced to realise, with much acute surprise and 


442 


God’s Good Man 


distress, that constant brooding on grief, — and excessive 
spiritual emotion of an exalted and sensuous kind, with much 
perplexed pondering on human evils for which there seemed 
no remedy, had produced a painful impression of life’s despair 
and futility on Brent’s mind, — an impression which it would 
be difficult to eradicate, and which would only be softened and 
possibly diminished by tenderly dealing with it as though it 
were an illness, and gradually bringing about restoration 
and recovery through the gentlest means. Though sometimes 
it was to be feared that all persuasion would be useless, and 
that the scandalous spectacle of an English Bishop seceding 
to the Church of Rome would be exhibited with an almost 
theatrical effect in his friend’s case. For the ornate ritual 
which the Bishop maintained in his Cathedral services was 
almost worthy of a Mass at St. Peter’s. The old, simple 
chaste English style of i Morning Prayer ’ was exchanged for 
‘Matins,’ — choristers perpetually chanted and sang, — crosses 
were carried to and fro, — banners waved — processions were 
held — and the * Via Crucis ’ was performed by a select number 
of the clergy and congregation every Friday. 

“I never have this sort of thing in my church,” — said 
Walden, bluntly, on one occasion — “ My parishioners would 
not understand it.” 

“ Why not teach them to understand it ? ” asked the Bishop, 
dreamily. They were standing together in the beautiful old 
Cathedral, now empty save for their presence, and Brent’s 
eyes were fixed with a kind of sombre wistfulness on a great 
gold crucifix up on the altar. 

“Teach them to understand it?” echoed Walden, with a 
touch of sorrow and indignation — “ You are my Bishop, but if 
you commanded me to teach them these ‘vain repetitions’ 
prohibited by the Divine Master, I should disobey you ! ” 

The Bishop flushed red. 

“ You disapprove ? ” 

“I disapprove of everything that tends to put England back 
again into the old religious fetters which she so bravely broke 
and cast aside,” — said John, warmly — “ I disapprove of all that 
even hints at the possibility of any part of the British Empire 
becoming the slave of Rome ! ” 

Brent gave a weary gesture. 

“ In religious matters it is wiser to be under subjection than 
free,”— he said, with a sigh— “ In a state of freedom we may 
think as we please — and freedom of thought breeds doubt,— 
whereas in a state of subjection we think as we must , and so 


God’s Good Man 


443 


we are gradually forced into an attitude of belief. The spread 
of atheism among the English is entirely due to the wild 
liberty of opinion allowed them by their forms of faith.” 

“ I do not agree with you ! ” — declared Walden, firmly — “ The 
spread of atheism is due, not to freedom of opinion, nor forms 
of faith, but simply to the laxity and weakness of the clergy.” 

The Bishop looked at him with a smile. 

“You always speak straight out, John!” he said — “You 
always did! And strange to say, I like you all the better for 
it. I could, if I chose, both reprove and command you — but I 
will do neither. You must take your own way, as you always 
have done. But there is a flavour of Rome even in your little 
church of St. Rest, — your miracle shrine, — your unknown saint 
in the alabaster coffin. You and your parishioners kneel before 
that every Sunday.” 

“ True — but we do not kneel to It, — nor do we pray through 
It,” — replied Walden — “ It stays in the chancel because it was 
found in the chancel. But it does not make ‘ a miracle shrine * 
as you say, — there is nothing miraculous about it.” 

“If it contains the body of a Saint,” — said the Bishop, 
slowly — “ it must be miraculous ! If, in the far-gone centuries, 
the prayers and tears of sorrowful human beings have bedewed 
ihat cold stone, some efficacy, some tenderness, some vitality, 
born of these prayers and tears, must yet remain! Walden, 
we preach the supernatural — do we not believe in it ? ” 

“The Divine supernatural — yes!” answered Walden, — 
“But ” 

The Bishop interrupted him by a gesture of his delicate 
band. 

“There are no ‘buts* in the matter, John,” — he said, 
quietly — “ What is supernatural is so by its own nature. The 
Divine is the Human, the Human is the Divine. In all and 
through all things the Spirit moves and makes its way. Our 
earth and ourselves are but particles of matter, worked by the 
spirit or essence of creative force. This spirit we can neither 
see nor touch, therefore we call it super-natural. But it per- 
meates all things, — the stone as completely as the flower. It 
circulates through that alabaster sarcophagus in your church, 
as easily as through your own living veins. Hence, as I say, 
if the mortal remains of a saint are enshrined within that 
reliquary, the spirit or 1 soul ’ enveloping it may work 4 miracles/ 
for all we dare to know ! ” He paused, and looking kindly at 
Walden’s grave and somewhat troubled face, added — ■“ Some 


444 


God’s Good Man 


day, when we are in very desperate straits, John, we will see 
what your saint can do for us ! ” 

He smiled. Walden returned the smile, but nevertheless 
was conscious of a sorrowful sense of regret at what he con- 
sidered his friend’s leaning toward superstitious observances 
and idolatrous ceremonies. At the same time he well knew 
that any violent opposition on the subject would be worse than 
useless in the Bishop’s present mood. ‘He therefore contented 
himself with, as he mentally said, i putting in the thin end of 
the wedge ’ — and, — carefully steering clear of all controversial 
matters, — contrived in a great measure to reassert the old 
magnetic sway he had been wont to exercise over Brent’s more 
pliable mind when at college — so that before they parted, he 
had obtained from him a solemn promise that there should be 
no ‘ secession ’ or even preparation for secession to Rome, till 
six months had elapsed. 

“And if you would only put away that picture,” — said 
Walden, earnestly, pointing towards the ( Virgin and Child ’ — 
“ Or rather, if you would have another one painted of th* 
sweet woman you loved as she really was in life, it would be 
wiser and safer for your own peace.” 

The Bishop shook his head. 

" The Virgin and Child are a symbol of all humanity,” — he 
said — “Mother and Son, — Present and Future! Woman 
holds the human race in her arms — at her breast! — without 
her. Chaos would come again! And for me, all Womanhood 
is personified in that one face ! ” 

He raised his eyes to the picture with an almost devout 
passion — and then abruptly turned away. The conversation 
was not renewed again between them, but when Walden 
parted from his friend, he had the satisfaction of knowing that 
he left him in a brighter, more hopeful and healthful condition, 
cheered, soothed and invigorated by the exchange of that 
mutual confidence and close sympathy which had linked their 
two lives together in boyhood, and which held them still subtly 
and tenderly responsive to each other’s most intimate emotions 
as men. 


XXVIII 


Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday 
night, Walden had no opportunity to learn anything of 
the incidents which had occurred during his brief absence. 
Letters were waiting for him, but he opened none, and shut 
himself up in his study at once to prepare his next day’s 
sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after all the 
servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept 
himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his 
preparation for the eleven o’clock service were necessarily 
somewhat hurried, and he had not time to say more than a 
cheery * Good-morning 9 even to Bainton, whom he passed on 
his way into the church, or to Adam Frost, though he fancied 
that both men looked at him somewhat curiously, as with an 
air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within the sacred 
building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded con- 
gregation. None that he could see were missing from their 
usual places. Maryllia certainly was not there, — but as she 
was admittedly not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be 
present. Badsworth Hall was entirely unrepresented, much 
to his relief ; neither Sir Morton Pippitt nor Lord Koxmouth, 
nor Mr. Marius Longford were anywhere visible. Old Josey 
Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner, — everything was precisely 
the same as it was wont to be — and yet a sense of vague 
trouble oppressed him, — he saw, or thought he saw, an expres- 
sion on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to 
him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had 
found its way into the peace of the village, though what the 
trouble could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as 
his text : i What went ye out for to see ? A reed shaken 
with the wind?’ and preached thereon with wonderful force, 
simplicity, eloquence and fervour — though all the time he 
spoke he wondered why his people stared at him so persistently, 
and why so many round eyes in so many round faces appeared 
to express such a lively, not to say questioning curiosity. 

After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. 
Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented him- 
self at the garden gate on his master’s return from the church 

445 


God’s Good Man 


446 

to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the 
study. Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his 
principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have ‘ no 
humbuggin’ wi’ Passon.’ And in a few words, spoken with a 
great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all, — 
how Miss Vancourt had gone away ‘ suddint-like ’ from the 
Manor, — and how it was said and reported all through the 
county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her 
engaged husband. Lord Koxmouth, had caught her ‘makin’ 
love’ to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Best’s 
own beloved ‘man o’ God,’ John Walden. And that Lord 
Boxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of 
the twain ‘weren’t never cornin’ back no more.’ So said 
Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sym- 
pathetically on his master’s face, — eyes as faithful as those of 
the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master’s knee, equally 
gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech. 

John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard 
the tale out to its end. 

“ Is that all?” he asked, when Bainton had concluded. 

“ That’s all, an’ ain’t it enough, Passon ? ” queried Bainton 
in somewhat dismal accents. “ Not that I takes in ’arf wot 
I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit 
on it, an’ if no one else ’ad the ’art or the pluck to tell ye 
straight out, I’d tell ye myself. For that old Miss Tabitha’s 
got a tongue as long as a tailor’s yard-measure wot alius 
measures a bit off to ’is own good, an’ Sir Morton Pippitt he do 
nothin’ but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin’ of it 
everywhere, an’ old Putty Leveson, he’s up at the ’All, day in, 
an’ day out, tellin’ ’ow you was goin’ to hit ’im in the eye — 
hor-hor-hor! — an’ why didn’t ye do it, Passon? — ’twould a’ 
been a real Gospel mercy! — an’ ’ow ’twas all about Miss 
Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley ’e come up an throwed ’im over 
in the road on ’is back which makes me think all the better o’ 
that young man, ’owsomever, I never took to ’im afore. But 
though he’s all skin an’ bone an’ long ’air as red as a biled 
carrot, he’s got a fist of ’is own, that’s pretty plain, an’ if he 
knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows ’e’s got some sense 
in ’im as well as sperrit. For it’s all over the place that there’s 
trouble about Miss Vancourt, an’ you may take my wurrd for 
it, Passon, they don’t leave the poor little leddy alone, nor 
you neither, an’ never takes into their minds as ’ow you’re old 
enough to be ’er father. That Miss Tabitha don’t spare no 
wurrds agin ’er — an’ as ye know, Passon, she's a leddy wot’s 


God’s Good Man 


447 


like ourdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Any- 
ways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an’ no lyin’ nor 
trickin’ — an’ if I’ve stepped over my dooty, I ’umbly axes 
pardin, but I means well, Passon, — I means well, — I do reely 
now ! ” 

Walden looked up, — his eyes were glittering — his lips were 
pate and dry. 

“I know— I know!”— he said, speaking with an effort— 
il You’re an honest fellow, Bainton! — and — and — I thank 
you! You not only mean well — you have done well. But it’s 
i i lie, Bainton ! — it’s all a wicked, damnable lie ! ” 

He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes 
flashing a steel-like lightning. 

“ It’s a lie ! ” he repeated — “ Do you understand ? A cruel, 
abominable lie ! ” 

Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically. 

“ So it be, Passon,” — he murmured — “ So it be — I know’d 
that all along! It’s a lie set goin’ by that fine gentleman 
rascal. Lord Roxmouth, wot can’t get Miss Maryllia and ’er 
aunt’s money nohow. Lor’ bless ye, I sees that plain enough ! 
But take it ’ow we will, a lie’s a nasty sort o’ burr to stick to a 
good name, ’speshully a name like yours, Passon, — an’ when 
it comes to that I feel that moithered an’ worrited-like not 
knowin’ ’ow to pick the burr off again. An’ Lord Roxmouth 
he be gone away or mebbe you could a’ had it out wi’ him ” 

“That will do, Bainton!” — said Walden, interrupting him 
by a gesture — •“ Say no more about it, please ! I’m glad you’ve 
spoken, — I’m glad I know! But, — let it rest there! Never 
allude to it again ! ” 

Bainton glanced up timorously at his master’s pale set 
face. 

“ Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to be done ? ” he faltered anxiously — 
“ Nothin’ to say as ’ow it’s all a lie ” 

“ Nothing on my part ! ” — said Walden, quickly and sternly, 
“ The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. 
You understand?” 

His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. 
Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the 
1 apples cornin’ on fine in the orchard ’ — as if Walden’s three 
days’ absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, 
and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his 
own mind. 

“ For silence gives consent,” he argued dolefully with 
himself — “ That’s copybook truth ! Yet o’ coorse ’tain’t to be 


God’s Good Man 


448 

expected as Passon would, send for the town-crier from 
Riversford to ring a bell through the village an* say as ’ow he 
’adn’t nothin’ to do with Miss Yancourt nor she with ’im. 
Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is alius taken 
for truth since the beginning when the Sarpint told the first 
big whopper in the Garden of Eden an’ took in poor silly Eve. 
An’ ye can’t contradict a lie somehow without makin’ it look 
more a truth than ever, — that’s the way o’ the thing. An’ it 
do stick! — Passon himself ’ull find that out, — it do stick, it do 
reely now ! ” 

Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult 
of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from 
the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate 
foliage from the touch of a coarse finger. He had never before 
been associated with the faintest rumour of it, — his life had 
been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the 
trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself 
now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced 
patience to Bainton’s rambling account of the gossip going 
on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor’s 
disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had 
arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the 
cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had 
gone away, — and that fact of itself was sufficient to make 
darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And 
not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had 
been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, 
which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the 
village and county. How it had arisen he could not under- 
stand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth 
had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true 
source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless 
fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his 
annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his 
study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which 
had accumulated on his table during his brief absence, all 
as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came 
suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been 
left ‘ by hand,’ addressed to him in the bold frank writing to 
which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an in- 
explicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a 
first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little 
missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite 
alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free 


God’s Good Man 449 

pen-strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening It, 
he read: 

“Dear Mr. Walden. — You will be surprised to find that 
I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I 
daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not 
judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me 
from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but cir- 
cumstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have 
bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things 
to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have 
gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself 
just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you* 
can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as 
often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village 
have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will 
please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite 
at your service if you ever want his assistance. Perhaps I 
ought just to mention that Lord Boxmouth overheard our 
conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner- 
party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you. 
should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye ! Try 
to forget that I smoked that cigarette! — Your sincere friend, 

“Maryllia Vancourt.” 

As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and 
cold — red and pale. All was clear to him now! — it was Lord 
Boxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He 
recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery 
and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous 
and vindictive man could make of it. Maryllia’s hand laid so 
coaxingly on his arm, — Maryllia’s face so sweetly and plead- 
ingly upturned, — Maryllia’s half-tender tremulous voice with 
its ‘ Will you forgive me?’ — and then — his own impetuous 
words ! — the way he had caught her hand and kissed it ! — why 
his very look must have betrayed him to the ‘noble and 
honourable ’ detective, part of whose distinguished role it was 
to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and 
scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees 
he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name 
and honour lay at the mercy of this man Boxmouth, who 
under the circumstances of the constant cheek put upon his 
mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both* 
And he felt sick at heart. 


450 


God’s Good Man 


Locking Maryllia’s note carefully in his desk, he stepped 
?nto his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with 
bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically 
disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that 
Maryllia had possibly — nay very probably — gone away for his 
sake, — to make things easier for him — to remove her presence 
altogether from his vicinity — and so render Roxmouth’s tale- 
bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of 
itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed 
his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with 
a sudden smarting moisture. 

“ Poor child ! ” he said, half aloud — “ Poor little lonely 
child!” 

Then a fresh thought came to him, — one which made the 
blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart 
to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If — if she had indeed 
gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what 
she imagined might cause him embarrassment or perplexity, 
then — then surely she cared! Yes — she must care for him 
greatly as a friend, — though only as a friend — to be willing to 
sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in the old 
home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve 
him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she 
cared! Was such a thing — could such a thing be possible? 
Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and 
pain, John pondered his own heart’s problem anxiously, and 
tried to decide the best course to pursue, — the best for her — • 
the best for himself. He was not long in coming to a decision, 
and once resolved, he was more at ease. 

When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the 
garrulous Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that 
the effect of his morning’s communication had apparently left 
no trace on his master’s ordinary demeanour, except perhaps 
to add a little extra gravity to his fine strong features, and 
accentuate the reserve of his accustomed speech and manner. 
His habitual dignity was even greater than usual, — his com- 
posed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had lost nothing of 
their quelling and authoritative influence, — and so far as his 
own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of 
Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. 
His visit to his friend the Bishop had ( done ’im a power o’ 
good’ — said his parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, 
Sunday being over and the week begun, he went about among 
them on his accustomed round of duty, enquiring after the 


God’s Good Man 


45i 


poultry and the cattle with all the zeal expected of him. The 
name of Miss Yancourt seldom passed his lips, — when other 
people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or 
suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He 
denied himself to all ‘county’ visitors on plea of press of 
work, — he never once Went to Abbot’s Manor or entered 
the Manor grounds — and the only persons with whom he 
occasionally interchanged hospitalities were Julian Adderley 
and the local doctor, 6 Jimmy 9 Forsyth. Withdrawing himself 
in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever, his life became 
almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his daily parish 
work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of his own 
garden. 

Days went on, weeks went on, — and soon, too soon, 
summer was over. The melancholy autumn shook down the 
once green leaves, all curled up in withering death-convulsions, 
from the branches of the trees now tossing in chill wind and 
weeping mists of rain. No news had been received by any- 
one in the village concerning Maryllia. The ‘ Sisters Gemini,’ 
Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from Abbot’s 
Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither 
of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to 
the probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. 
Sir Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal 
for which there seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and 
even his daughter Tabitha began to wonder whether after all 
there was not some exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth 
had given her to sow like rank seed upon the soil of daily 
circumstance? She never saw Walden by any chance, — on 
one occasion she ventured to call, but he was ‘ out ’ as usual. 
Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit at Bads- 
worth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually 
but surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbour- 
hood so far as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, 
while within the village his reticence and reserve were so 
strongly marked that even the most privileged person in the 
place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at his calm, cold, almost 
stem aspect, hesitated to speak to him except on the most 
ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his displeasure. 

Meanwhile the village sorely missed the bright face and 
sweet ways of ‘th’ owld Squire’s gel’ — and many of the 
inhabitants tried to get news of her through Mrs. Spruce, but 
all in vain. That good lady, generally so talkative, was for 
once in her life more than discreetly dumb. All that she 


452 


God’s Good Man 


would say was that she “ didn’t know nothink. Miss Maryllia 
*ad gone abroad an’ all ’er letters was sent to London solicitors. 
Any other address? No — no other address. The servants 
was to be kep’ on — no one wasn’t goin’ to lose their places 
if they behaved theirselves, which please the Lord, they will 
do ! ” — she concluded, with much fervour. Bennett, the 
groom, was entrusted with the care of the mares Cleo and 
Daffodil, and might be seen exercising them every day on the 
open moors beyond the village, accompanied by the big dog 
Plato, — and so far as the general management of affairs was 
concerned, that was ably undertaken by the agent Stanways, 
who though civil and obliging to all the tenantry, had no news 
whatever to give respecting the absence or the probable return 
of the lady of the Manor. The Reverend Putwood Leveson 
occasionally careered through the village on his bicycle, 
accompanied by Oliver Leach who bestrode a similar machine, 
and both individuals made a point of grinning broadly as they 
passed the church and rectory of St. Rest, jerking their fingers 
and thumbs at both buildings with expressively suggestive 
contempt. 

And by and by the people began to settle down into the 
normal quietude which had been more or less their lot, before 
Maryllia, with her vivacious little musical protegee Cicely 
Bourne had awakened a new interest and animation in the 
midst of their small community, — and they began to resign 
themselves to the idea that her ‘ whim ’ for residing once more 
in the home of her childhood had passed, and that she would 
now, without doubt, marry the future Duke of Ormistoune, 
and pass away from the limited circle of St. Rest to those 
wider spheres of fashion, the splendours of which mere 
country-folk are not expected to have more than the very 
faintest glimmering conception. Even in that independent 
corner of opinion, the tap-room of the ‘ Mother Huff,’ her 
name was spoken with almost bated breath, though Mr. 
Netlips was not by *any means loth to spare any flow of 
oratorical eloquence on the subject. 

“I think, Mr. Buggins,” he said one evening, addressing 
e mine host ’ with due gravity — “ I think you will recall to your 
organisation certain objective propositions I made with regard 
to Miss Vancourt, when that lady first entered into dominative 
residence at Abbot’s Manor. Personally speaking, I have no 
discrepancies to suggest beyond the former utterance. Matters 
in which I have taken the customary mercantile interest have 
culminated with the lady to the satisfaction of all sides. 


God’s Good Man 


453 


Nothing has been left standing controversially on my books. 
Nevertheless it would be repudiative to say that I have 
sophisticated my previous opinion. I said then, and I 
confirm the observation, that a heathen cannot enjoy the pro- 
spective right of the commons.” 

“ I s’pose,” — said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference 
to this outburst — “ you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt 
is a kind of heathen ? ” 

Mr. Netlips nodded severely. 

“ ’Cos she don’t go to church ? ” suggested Dan Ridley, who 
as usual was one of the tap-room talkers. 

Again Mr. Netlips nodded. 

“ Well,” said Dan, “ she came to church once an’ brought 
her friends ” 

“ Late, — very late,” — interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly — 
“ The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest 
decorum. The strongest, the most open decorum! Deplor- 
able decorum ! ” 

“ What’s decorum ? ” enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously. 

Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively. 

“ Decorum,” — he said — “ is — well ! — decorum.” 

Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked 
perplexed. There was a silence, — the men listening to the 
wailing. of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the 
house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied 
by pattering drops of rain. 

“ Summer’s sheer over,” — said a labourer, lifting his head 
from his tankard of ale — ■“ Howsomever, we’re all safe this 
winter in the worst o’ weather. Rents are all down at ’arf 
what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, 
so whether she’s a decorum or not don’t matter to me. She’s 
a right good sort — so here’s to her ! ” 

And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several 
men present following his example. 

“Passon Walden,” — began Dan Ridley — “Passon Wal- 
den ” 

But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash. Buggins 
had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter. 

“ No gossiping o’ Passon Walden allowed ’ere,” — he said, — 
“Not while I’m master o’ this public! ” 

“ Leeze majestas,” — proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively — 
“You’re right, Buggins — you’re quite right! Leeze majestas 
would be entirely indigenous — entirely so ! ” 

An awkward pause ensued. "'Leeze majestas’ in all its dark 


454 


God’s Good Man 


incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern 
company, and effectually checked any further conversation. 
It was one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, 
by its ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an 
overwhelming effect. There was nothing to be said after it. 

The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and 
died, — and the village began to look very lonely and dreary. 
Heavy rains fell and angry gales blew, — so that when dark 
November came glooming in, with lowering skies, there was 
scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or scarlet Virginian creeper 
clinging to roof or wall. The woods around Abbot’s Manor 
were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel grew in 
thick clusters, and where several grand old hollies showed 
their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green. The 
Manor itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful, — smoke 
poured up from the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled 
through the windows, — all the shutters, which had been put 
up after the departure of the 4 Sisters Gemini/ were taken down 
- — blinds were raised and curtains drawn back, — and as soon 
as these signs and tokens were manifested, people were not 
slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was coming 
back for Christmas ? But to all enquiries that estimable dame 
gave the same answer. She ‘ didn’t know nothink/ The 
groom Bennett was equally reticent. He had received ‘no 
orders/ Mr. Stanways, the agent, and his wife, both of whom 
had become very friendly with all the villagers, were cheerfully 
talkative on every subject but one, — that of Miss Vancourt 
and her movements. All they could or would say was that 
her return was ‘ quite uncertain/ Fires were lighted in the 
Manor — oh yes! — to keep the house well aired— and windows 
were opened for the same purpose, — but beyond that — e really/ 
said Mr. Stanways, smiling pleasantly — ‘ I can give no infor- 
mation ! 9 

The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder, — and soon, 
when the chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim 
damp earnest, the whole county woke up from the pleasant 
indolence into which the long bright summer had steeped it, 
and responded animatedly to the one pulse of vitality which 
kept it going. The hunting season began. Old, otherwise 
dull men, started up into the semblance of youth again, and 
sprang to their saddles with almost as much vigour and 
alertness as boys, — and Keynard with his cubs ruled 
potently the hour. The first ‘ meet 9 of the year was held at 
Ittlethwaite Park, — and for days before it took place nothing 


God’s Good Man 


455 


else was talked of. Hunting was really the one occupation 
of the gentry of the district, — everything else distinctly ‘ bored ’ 
them. Many places in England are entirely under the com- 
plete dominion of this particular form of sport, — places, where, 
if you do not at least talk about hunting and nothing but 
hunting, you are set down as a fool. Politics, art, literature, — 
these matters brought into conversation merely excite a 
vacuous stare and yawn, — and you may consider yourself 
fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are not con- 
sidered as partially insane. To obtain an ordinary reputation 
for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk 
horse all day and play Bridge all night, — then and then only 
will you have earned admission into these ‘ exclusive ’ circles 
where the worth of a quadruped exceeds the brain of a man. 

The morning of the meet dawned dully — yet now and then 
the sun shone fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a 
cold sparkle the thick ivy, wet with the last night’s rain, which 
clung to the walls of Walden’s rectory. There was a chill 
wind, and the garden looked bleak and deserted, though it was 
kept severely tidy, Bainton never failing to see that all fallen 
leaves were swept up every afternoon and all weeds ‘ kep’ 
under.’ But there was no temptation to saunter down the 
paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden, 
seated by a blazing fire in his study, with Nebbie snoozing at 
his feet, was sufficiently comfortable to be glad that no 
* parochial ’ duties called him forth just immediately from his 
warm snuggery. He had felt a little ailing of late — ‘the 
oncoming of age and infirmity,’ he told himself, and he 
looked slightly more careworn. The strong restraint he had 
imposed upon himself since he knew the nature of the scandal 
started by Lord Koxmouth, and the loyal and strict silence he 
had maintained on the subject that was nearest and dearest to 
his own heart, had been very trying to him. There was no one 
to whom he could in any way unburden his mind. Even to his 
closest friend, Bishop Brent, he had merely written the briefest 
of letters, informing him that Miss Vancourt had left Abbot’s 
Manor for a considerable time, — but no more than this. He 
longed passionately for news of Maryllia, but none came. 
The only person to whom he sometimes spoke of her, but 
always guardedly, was Julian Adderley. Julian had received 
one or two letters from Cicely Bourne, — but they were all 
about her musical studies, and never a word of Maryllia in 
them. And Julian was almost as anxious to know what had 
become of her as Walden himself, the more so as he heard 


God’s Good Man 


456 

constantly from Marius Longford, who never ceased urging him 
to try and discover her whereabouts. Which request proved 
that, for once. Lord Roxmouth had been foiled, and that even 
he with all his various social detectives at work, had lost all 
trace of her. 

On this particular morning of the opening of the hunting 
season, Walden sat by the fire reading, — or trying to read. 
He was conscious of a great depression, — a ‘ fit of the blues/ 
which he attributed partly to the damp, lowering weather. 
Idly he turned over the leaves of a first edition of Tennyson’s 
poems, — pausing here and there to glance at a favourite lyric 
or con over a well-remembered verse, when the echo of a 
silvery horn blown clear on the wintry silence startled him out 
of his semi-abstraction. Rising, he went instinctively to the 
window, though from that he could see nothing but his own 
garden, looking blank enough in its flowerless condition, the 
only bright speck in it being a robin sitting on a twig hard by, 
that ruffled its red breast prettily and blinked its trustful eye at 
him with a friendly air of sympathy and recognition. He 
listened attentively for a moment and heard the approaching 
trot and gallop of horses, — then suddenly recalling the fact that 
the hounds were to meet that day at Ittlethwaite Park, he 
took his hat and went out to see if any of the hunters were 
passing by. 

A wavering mass of colour gleamed at the farther end of 
the village as he looked down the winding road ; — scarlet coats, 
white vests and buckskin breeches showed bravely against 
the satiny brown and greys of a fine group of gaily prancing 
steeds that came following after the huntsmen, the hounds 
and the whippers-in, and a cheery murmur of pleasant voices, 
broken with an occasional musical ring of laughter, dispersed 
for a time the heaviness of the rainy air. Something 
unusually pleasant seemed to animate the faces of all who 
composed the hunting train as they came into view, — Miss 
Arabella Ittlethwaite, for example, portly of bulk though she 
was, sat in her saddle with an almost mirthful lightness, her 
good-natured fat face all smiles, — while her brother 
Rruce, laughing heartily over something which had evi- 
dently tickled his fancy, looked more like thirty than 
sixty, so admirably did his 1 pink ’ become him, and so 
excellently well did he ride. Walden saluted them as they 
passed, and they gave him a pleasant ( good-day.’ But, — what 
was that sudden flash of deep purple, which the fitful sun, 
peering sulkily through grey clouds, struck upon quickly with a 
slanting half-smile of radiance? What — and who was the 


God’s Good Man 


457 


woman riding lightly, with uplifted head like a queen, in the 
midst of the company, surrounded by all the younger men of 
the neighbourhood who, keeping their horses close on either side 
of her, appeared to be trying to outrival each other in eager 
attentions, in questions and answers, in greetings and hat- 
liftings, and general exchange of courtesies? Walden rubbed 
his eyes, and gazed and gazed, — anon his heart gave a wild 
leap, and he felt himself growing deadly pale. Had the 
portrait of ‘Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt’ in Abbot’s 
Manor come visibly to life? — or was it, could it be indeed, — 
Maryllia ? 

He would gladly have turned away, but some stronger force 
than his own held him fast where he stood, stricken with 
surprise, and a gladness that was almost fear. The swaying 
gleam of purple came nearer and nearer, and resolved itself 
at last into definite shape, — Maryllia’s face, Maryllia’s eyes! 
Almost mechanically he half opened his gate as all the hunters 
went trotting by, and she alone reined in her mare ‘ Cleopatra y 
and spoke to him. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Walden ! ” 

He looked up — and looking, smiled. What a child she was 
after all! — full of quaint vanities surely, and naive coquetry! 
For her riding-dress was the exact copy of that worn by her 
pictured ancestress ‘Mary Elia/ — even to the three-cornered 
hat and the tiny rose fastened in the bodice which was turned 
back with embroidered gold revers, — so that the ‘lady in the 
vi’let velvet’ appeared before him as it were, re-incarnated, — 
and the pouting lips, sweet eyes and radiant hair were all part 
of the witch-glamour and mystery! Mastering his thoughts 
with an effort, he raised his hat in his usual quietly courteous 
way. 

“ This is a great surprise, Miss Yancourt ! 99 he said, lightly, 
though his voice trembled a little — “And a happy one! The 
villagers will be delighted to see you back again! When did 
you return ? ” 

“Last night,” — she answered, fixing her frank gaze fully 
upon him and noting with a sharp little pang of compunction 
that he looked far from well — “ I felt I must be here for the 
first meet of the season! I’ve been staying in an old convent 
on the Breton coast, — such a dear quaint place ! And I think,” 
— here she nodded her pretty head wisely — “I th ink I’ve 
brought you enough stained glass to quite finish your rose- 
window! I’ve been busy collecting it ever since I left here. 
Gently, Cleo !— gently, my beauty! ’’—this, as her mare pawed 


God’s Good Man 


458 

the ground restlessly and sprang forward — “ Come and see me 
to-morrow, Mr. Walden ! I shall expect you ! ” 

Waving her gloved hand she cantered off and rejoined the 
rest of the hunters going on ahead. Once she turned in her 
saddle and looked back, — and again waved her hand. The 
sun came out fully then, and sweeping aside the grey mists, 
shed all its brightness on the graceful figure in the saddle, 
striking a reflex of rose from the soft violet riding-dress, and 
sparkling against the rippling twists of gold-brown hair, — 
then, — as she disappeared between two rows of leafless trees, 
— withdrew itself again frowningly and shone no more that 
day. 

Walden re-entered his house, hardly able to sustain the 
sudden joy that filled him. He felt himself trembling nerv- 
ously, and was angry at his own weakness. 

“ I am more foolish than any love-sick boy ! ” he said to 
himself with inward remonstrance — “And God knows I am 
old enough to know better! But I cannot help being glad 
she has come home! — I cannot help it! Bor with her presence 
it seems to me that ‘the winter is past, the rain is over and 
gone, the flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the 
singing of birds is come 9 ! She is so full of life and 
brightness! — we shall know nothing of dull days or gloomy 
skies in St. Rest if she stays with us, — though perhaps for 
me it might be wiser and safer to choose the dull days and 
gloomy skies rather than tempt my soul with the magical 
light of an embodied spring in winter-time! But I shall be 
careful, — careful of myself and of her, — I shall guard her 
name in every way, on my side — and if — if I love her, she shall 
never know it ! ” 

He resumed his former seat by the study fire, and again 
took up his volume of Tennyson. And opening the book at 
hazard, his glance fell on that exquisite ‘ Fragment * which 
perhaps excels in its own way all the ‘ Idylls of the King ’ — - 

"As she fled fast thro* sun and shade, 

The happy winds upon her play'd, 

Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 

She look’d so lovely as she sway’d 
The rein with dainty finger-tips. 

A man had given all other bliss, 

And all his worldly worth for this. 

To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips.” 


God’s Good Man 


459 


u Quite true ! ” he said, as he read the lines half aloud, a 
tender smile lighting up the gravity of his deep thoughtful 
eyes — “ True to the life, so far as the Guinevere of to-day is 
concerned! But let the simile stop there, John, my boy! 
Don’t carry it any further! Don’t deceive yourself as to your 
own demerits ! You are nothing but an old-fashioned country 
parson — a regular humdrum, middle-aged fogey! — that’s what 
you are! — so, even though you have fallen in love (which at 
your time of life is a folly you ought to be ashamed of), don’t 
for Heaven’s sake imagine yourself a Lancelot, John! — it 
won’t dol” 


XXIX 


^\ver the moist ground, and under the bare branches that 
^dripped slow tears of past rain, the brilliant hunting 
train swept onward, Maryllia riding in the midst, till they 
came out on a bare stretch of moorland covered with sparse 
patches of gorse and fir. Here they all paused, listening to 
the cry of the huntsman in the bottoms, and watching the 
hounds as they drew up wind. 

The eyes of every man present wandered now and again 
to Maryllia in admiration, — none of them had ever seen her 
look so lovely, so bright, so entirely bewitching. She was 
always at her best in the saddle. When she had paid her first 
visit to America with her uncle and aunt as a girl of sixteen, 
she had been sent for the benefit of her health to stay with 
some people who owned a huge Californian ‘ ranch,’ and there 
she learned to ride on horses that were scarcely broken in, 
and to gallop across miles and miles of prairie, bareheaded 
to the burning sun, and had, in such pastime, felt the glorious 
sense of that savage and splendid freedom which is the true 
heritage of every child of nature, — a heritage too often lost 
in the tangled ways of over-civilisation, and seldom or never 
regained. The dauntless spirit of joyous liberty was in her 
blood, — she loved the fresh air and vigorous exercise, and was 
a graceful, daring rider, never knowing what it was to feel 
a single pulse of fear. Just now she was radiantly happy. 
She was glad to be at home again, — and still more glad that 
her plans for eluding the pursuit of Lord Roxmouth had 
completely succeeded. He had been left absolutely in the 
dark as to her whereabouts. His letters to her had been 
returned unanswered, through her solicitors, who declined to 
make any statement with regard to her movements, and, 
growing weary at last of fruitless enquiry, he had left England 
to winter in Egypt with a party of wealthy friends, her aunt, 
Mrs. Fred Yancourt, being among the number. She owed this 
pleasing news to Louis Gigue, who had assisted her in her 
flight from the persecution of her detested wooer. Gigue had, 
through his influence, managed to introduce her under an 
assumed name, as a friend of his own to certain poor nung 

460 


God’s Good Man 


461 

in a Brittany convent, who were only too willing to receive 
her as a paying guest for a couple of months, and to ask no 
questions concerning her. There she had stayed with 
exemplary patience and resignation, — lonely indeed, yet 
satisfied to have made good her escape for the time being, 
and, as she imagined, to have saved John Walden from any 
possibility of annoyance chancing to him through her, or by 
her means. She would not consent to have even Cicely with her, 
lest any accidental clue to her hiding-place might be found 
and followed. 

As soon, however, as she heard that B-oxmouth had actually 
left England, she made haste to return at once to the home 
she had now learned to love with a deep and clinging affection, 
and she had timed her reappearance purposely for the first 
meet of the hunting season. She would show herself, so she 
resolved, as a free and independent woman to all the county, 
— and if people had gossiped about her, or were prone to 
gossip, they would soon find out the error of their ways. 
Hence the c creation’ of the becoming violet velvet riding- 
dress, copied from the picture of her ancestress in Abbot’s 
Manor gallery. She had determined to make an ‘ effective 9 
entrance on the field, — to look as pretty and picturesque as 
she possibly could, and to show that she was herself and 
nobody else, bound to no authority save her own. 

In this purely feminine ambition she certainly accomplished 
her end. She was the centre of attraction, — all the members 
of the Biversford Hunt dispersed round and about her in 
near or distant groups, discussed her in low tones, even while 
watching the working of the pack, and scanning every yard 
of open ground for the first sign of a fox. Gradually the 
crowd of horses and riders increased, — men from the county- 
town itself, farmers from the more outlying parts of the 
neighbourhood, and some of the Badsworth Hall tenantry, 
having arrived too late at Ittlethwaite Park for the actual 
meet, now came hurriedly galloping up, and among these 
last was Oliver Leach. It was the first time Maryllia had 
seen her dismissed agent since her rescue of the Live Sister 
beeches, and she had thought of him so little that she would 
not have recognised him now had not his horse, a vicious- 
looking restive creature, started plunging close to her own 
hunter 1 Cleopatra,’ and caused that spirited animal to rear 
almost upright on her haunches. In the act of reining the 
mare out of his way she looked at him, while he, in his turn 
stared full at her in evident astonishment. As he appeared 


God’s Good Man 


462 

gradually to recognise her identity, his face, always livid, grew 
more deeply sallow of hue, and an ugly grin made a gargoyle 
of his mouth and eyes. She, as soon as she recollected him, 
remembered at the same time the curse he had flung at her — 
‘ a May curse/ she thought to herself with a superstitious little 
shudder — ‘ and a May curse always begins to work in 
November, so the gossips say ! ’ 

Moved by an instinctive distrust and dislike of the man, 
she turned her back upon him, and patting Cleopatra’s neck, 
cantered quickly ahead to join the rest of the field which was 
now moving towards another cover, while the hounds ran 
through some low thickets of brushwood and tangled bracken. 

She was in a curious frame of mind, and found her own 
emotions difficult to analyse. The momentary glimpse she had 
just had of John Walden had filled her with a strangely tender 
compassion. Why did he look so worn and worried? Had 
he missed her? Had her two months and more of absence 
seemed as long to him as they had to her? She wondered! 
Anon, she asked herself why she wondered! What did it 
matter to her what he thought, or how he passed his days? 
Then a sudden rush of colour warmed her cheeks, and a light 
came into her eyes. It did matter! — there was no getting 
away from it, — it did matter very much what he thought, and 
it had become of paramount importance to her to know how he 
passed his days ! 

Deep in her heart a secret sweet consciousness lay nestled, 
— a consciousness, subtly feminine, which told her that she 
was held in precious estimation by at least one man, — and 
that she had advanced towards her most cherished desire of 
love so far as to have become ‘dear to someone else.’ And 
that ‘someone else’ — who was he? Oh, well! — nobody in 
particular !— only a country clergyman, — a poor creature, so 
the world might say, to build romances upon! Yet she was 
building them fast One after the other they shaped themselves 
like cloud-castles in the airy firmament of her dreams, and 
she permitted herself to dwell on the possible joys they 
suggested. Very simple joys too ! — such as the completion of the 
rose-window in the church of St. Best, — he would be pleased 
if that were done — yes! — she was sure he would be pleased! 
— and she had managed, during her sojourn in Brittany, to 
secure some of the loveliest old stained glass, dating from 
the twelfth century, which she meant to give him to-morrow 
when he came to see her. To-morrow! What a long time it 
seemed till then ! And suppose he did not come ? Well, then 


God’s Good Man 


463 

she would go and see him herself, and would tell him just 
why she had gone away from home, and why she had not 
written to him or to anybody else in the neighbourhood, — and 
then — and then 

Here she started at the sound of a sudden ‘ tally-ho ! ’ — the 
hounds had rallied — a fox was 1 drawn/ — the whole field was 
astir, and with a musical blast of the horn, the hunt swept on 
in a flash of scarlet and white, black, brown and grey, across 
the moor. Maryllia gave herself up to the excitement of the 
hour, and galloped along, her magnificent mare 6 Cleopatra, 
Queen of Egypt 9 scenting sport in the wind and enjoying the 
wild freedom allowed her by a loose rein and the light weight 
she bore. On, on ! — with the wet chill perfume of fallen leaves 
rising from the earth on which the eager hoofs of the horses 
trampled, — on, always on, in the track of stealthy Beynard, 
over dips and hollows in the ground and shallow pools fringed 
with gaunt sedges and twisted brambles, — on, still on, crossing 
and re-crossing lines of scent where the hounds appeared for 
the moment at a loss, till they dashed off again towards the 
farther woods. Putting her mare to a fence and clearing 
it easily, Maryllia crossed a meadow, which she knew to be 
the shortest way to the spot where she could just see the 
pack racing silently ahead, — and, coming out on one of the 
high-roads between St. Best and Biversford, she drew rein 
for a moment. Several of the hunters had chosen the same 
short-cut, and came out of the meadow with her, calling a 
cheery word or two as they passed her and pressed on in the 
ardour of the chase. 

Quickly resuming her gallop, and yielding to the exhilara- 
tion of the air and the pleasure of movement, she urged her 
mare to a pace which would have been deemed reckless by 
all save the most skilled and daring riders, unaware of the 
unpleasant fact that she was being closely followed by 
Oliver Leach. He rode about twenty paces behind her, 
every now and then gaining on her, and anon pulling 
back his horse in an apparent desire not to outstrip her. The 
rest of the hunting party were well ahead, and they had the 
road to themselves, with the exception of a fat man on a 
bicycle, who was careering along in front of them, looking 
something like a ton on wheels. Maryllia soon flew past this 
moving rotundity, and even if she had had time to look at it, 
she would not have known that it was the Beverend Putwood 
Leveson, as she had never seen that gentleman. Catching a 
glimpse of the hounds, now racing round the edge of a sloping 


God’s Good Man 


464 

hill, she galloped faster and faster, — while Oliver Leach, with 
an odd set expression in his face and eyes, and his hat well 
pulled down on his brows, followed her at an almost equally 
flying speed. A ploughed field lay between them, and the 
smooth dark slope of land edged with broken furze, where 
the pack could be plainly seen racing for blood. A moderately 
low, straggling hedge intervened. Such an obstacle was a 
mere trifle for ‘ Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt ’ to clear, and 
Maryllia put her to it with her usual ease and buoyancy. But 
now up came Oliver Leach on his ill-formed but powerful 
beast ; — and just as the spirited mare, with her lightly poised 
rider on her back, leaped the hedge, he set his own animal 
at precisely the same place in deliberate defiance of all hunting 
rules, and springing at her like a treacherous enemy from 
behind, closed on her haunches, and pounded straight over 
her! Maryllia reeled in her saddle, — for one half second, her 
blue eyes wide with terror, turned themselves full upon her 
pursuer — she raised her hand appealingly — warningly — in 
vain! With a crash of breaking brushwood the mare went 
down under the plunging hoofs that came thudding so heavily 
upon her, — there was a quick shriek — a blur of violet and gold 

hurled to the ground — and then, — then Leach galloped on- 

alone! He dared not look back! His nerves throbbed — his 
heart beat high, — and his evil soul rejoiced in its wickedness 
as only the soul of a devil can. 

“ Verdict — accidental death ! ” he muttered, with a fierce 
laugh — •“ No doubt it will be thought singular that the 
daughter should have met the same end as her father! And 
nothing more will be said. But suppose she is not killed, since 
every cat has nine lives? No matter, she will be disfigured 
for life ! That will suit me just as well ! ” 

He laughed again, and passed on in the wake of the hunt 
which had now swept far ahead round the bend of the hill. 

Meanwhile, ‘Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,’ rendered stunned 
and dizzy by her fall, began to recover her equine senses. 
Sniffing the air and opening her wild bright eyes, she soon 
perceived her loved mistress lying flung about three yards 
distant from where she herself had rolled over and over on the 
thick wet clod of the field. With a supreme effort the 
gallant beast attempted to rise, — and presently, with much 
plunging and kicking, in which struggles however, she with an 
almost human intelligence pushed herself farther away from 
that prone figure on the ground, so that she might not injure 
it, she managed to stand upright, quivering in every strained. 


God’s Good Man 


4t>5 


sore limb. Lifting her head, she whinnied with a melancholy 
long-drawn plaintiveness, and then with a slow, stiff hobble, 
moved cautiously closer to Maryllia’s fallen body. There she 
paused and whinnied again, while the grey skies lowered and 
rain began to ooze from the spreading leaden weight of cloud. 

And now assistance seemed near, for the Reverend Putwood 
Leveson, having had to lead his bicycle up a hill, and being 
overcome with a melting tallow of perspiration in the effort, 
hove in sight like an unwieldy porpoise bobbing up on dry 
land. Approaching the broken gap in the hedge, he quickly 
spied the mare, and realised the whole situation. Now was the 
chance for a minister of Christ to show his brave and gentle 
ministry! He had a flask of brandy in his pocket, — he never 
went anywhere without it. He felt it, where it was concealed, 
comfortably pressed against his heart, — then he peered blandly 
over the hedge at the helpless human creature lying there 
unconscious. He knew who it was, — who it must be, — for, 
as he had cycled through the village after the hunt had started, 
he had heard everyone talking of Miss Vancourt’s unexpected 
return, and how she had been the i queen ’ of the meet that 
morning. Besides, she had passed him on the road, riding 
at full gallop. He wiped his forehead now and smiled 
pleasantly. 

“ Queens are very soon discrowned ! ” — he said to himself — 
“And, fortunately, vacant thrones are soon filled! Now if 
that sneak Walden were here ” 

He paused considering. The remembrance of the indignity 
he had suffered at the hands of Julian Adderley was ever fresh 
with him, — an indignity brought about all through the very 
woman who was now perhaps dying before his eyes, if she was 
not already dead. Suddenly, pushing his way through the 
broken hedge, he approached ‘ Cleopatra 9 cautiously. The 
malignant idea entered his brain that if he could make the 
animal start and plunge, her hoofs would crush the body of 
her mistress more surely and completely. Detestable as the 
impulse was, it came quite naturally to him. He had helped 
to kill butterflies often — why not a woman? The murderous 
instinct was the same in both cases. He tried to snatch the 
mare’s bridle-rein, but she jerked her head away from him, and 
stood like a rock. He could not move her an inch. Onl^ 
her great soft eyes kindled with a warning fire as he hovered 
about her, — and a decided movement of one of her hind hoofs 
suggested that possibly he might have the worst of any attempt 
to play pranks with her. He paused a moment, considering. 


God’s Good Man 


466 

“ Oliver Leach came this way,” — he mused — “ He passed 
me almost immediately after she did. Is this his work, I 
wonder ? ” Here / he drew out his always greasy pocket- 
handkerchief and wiped his face with as much tender care as 
though it were a handsome one — “ I shouldn’t be surprised,” — 
he continued, in a mild sotto-voce — •“ I shouldn’t be at all 
surprised if he had arranged this little business! Clever — 
very! Fatal accidents in the hunting-field are quite common. 

He knows that. So do I. But I shall find out, yes! — I 

shall find out ” 

Here he almost jumped with an access of ‘ nerves ’ — for 
1 Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt 9 suddenly stretched out her long 
arched neck and whinnied with piteous, beseeching loudness. 
A pause of intense stillness followed the mare’s weird cry, — a 
stillness broken only by the slow pattering of rain. Then from 
the near distance came the baying of hounds and a far echo 
of the hunting horn. 

Seized by panic, the Reverend 1 Putty ’ scrambled quickly 
out of the ploughed field, through the broken hedge and on to 
the high-road again, where taking himself to his bicycle again, 
he scurried away like a rat from falling timber. He had been 
on his way to Biversford when he had stopped to look at the 
little fallen heap of violet and gold, — guarded so faithfully by 
a four-footed beast twenty times more ‘ Christian ’ in natural 
feeling than his ‘ ordained ’ clerical self, — and he now resumed 
that journey. And though, as he neared the town, he met 
many persons of the neighbourhood on foot, in carts, and 
light-wheeled traps, he never once paused to give news of 
the accident, or so much as thought of sending means of 
assistance. 

“ I am not supposed to have seen anything,” — he said, with 
a fat smile — “ and I am not supposed to know ! I shall 
certainly not be asked to assist at the funeral service. Walden 
will attend to that ! ” 

He cycled on rapidly, and arriving at Biversford went to tea 
with the brewer’s wife, Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, at Appleby 
Hall, and was quite fatherly and benevolent to her son, a 
lumpy child of ten, the future heir to all the malt, hops, 
barrels, vats, and poisonous chemicals comprising the Appleby 
estates in this world. 

The afternoon closed in coldly and mournfully. A steady 
weeping drizzle of rain set in. Some of the hunters returned 
through St. Best by twos and threes, looking in a woeful 
condition, bespattered up to their saddles with mud, and 


God’s Good Man 


467 


feeling, no doubt, more or less out of temper, as notwith- 
standing a troublesome and fatiguing run, the fox had escaped 
them after all. It was about five o’clock, when Walden, having 
passed a quiet day among his books, and having felt the sense 
of a greater peace and happiness at his heart than he had been 
conscious of since the May-day morning of the year, pushed 
aside his papers, rose from his chair, and, looking out at the 
dreary weather, wondered if the i Guinevere ’ of the hunt had 
got safely home from her gallop across country. 

“ She will be wet through,” — he thought, — the tender smile 
that made his face so lovable playing softly found his lips — 
“ But she will not mind that ! She will laugh, and brush out 
her pretty hair all ruffled and wet with the rain, — her cheeks 
will be glowing with colour, and her lips will be as red as the 
cherries when they first begin to ripen, — her eyes will be 
bright with health and vitality, — and life — young life — life 
full of joy and hope and brightness will radiate from her as the 
light radiates from the sun. And I shall bask in the luminance 
of her smile — I, cold and grey, like a burnt-out ember of 
perished possibilities, — I shall warm my chill soul at the sweet 
fire of her presence — I shall see her to-morrow ! ” 

He went to the hearth and stirred the smouldering logs 
into a bright blaze. He was just about to ring for fresh fuel, 
when there came a sudden, alarmed knocking at the street 
door. Somewhat startled, he listened, his hand on the bell. 
He heard the light step of Hester the housemaid tripping along 
the passage quickly to answer the imperative summons, — there 
was a confused murmur of voices — and then a sudden cry of 
horror, — and a loud burst of sobbing. 

“ Whist whist ! be quiet, be quiet ! 99 said a hoarse 

trembling voice which it was difficult to recognise as Bain- 
ton’s ; “ For the Lord’s sake, don’t make that noise, gel ! Think 
o’ Passon! — do’ee think o’ Passon! We must break it to ’im 

gently like ” But the hysterical sobbing broke out again 

and drowned all utterance. 

And still Walden stood, listening. A curious rigidity 
affected his nerves. Something had happened — but what? 
His dry lips refused to frame the question. All at once, 
he roused himself. With a couple of strides across 
his little study he threw open the door and went out 
into the passage. There stood Hester with her apron thrown 
over her head, weeping convulsively — while Bainton, leaning 
against the ivied porch entrance to the house, was trembling 
like a woman in an ague fit. 


God’s Good Man 


468 

“What’s the matter?” said Walden, in a voice of almost 
peremptory loudness, — a voice that sounded harsh and wild 
on his own ears — “ What has happened ? ” 

“ Oh-oh — Oh-oh!” wailed Hester — “Oh, Mr. Walden, oh, 
sir, I can’t tell you! I can’t indeed t — it’s about Miss Yancourt 

oh — poor dear little lady! — oh-oh! I can’t 1 — I can’t say 

it ! I can’t ! ” 

“ Don’t ye try, my gel !” — said Bainton, gently — “ You ain’t 
fit for’t, — don’t ye try! Which I might a’known a woman’s 
’art, couldn’t abear it, — nor a man’s neither! ” Here he turned 
his pale face upon his master, and the slow tears began to 
trickle down his furrowed cheeks. 

“Passon Walden,” — he began, in shaking accents — “ Passon 
Walden, sir, Pm fair beside myself ’ow to tell ye — but you’re 
a brave man wot knows the ways o’ God an’ ’ow mortal ’ard 
they seems to us all sometimes, poor an’ rich alike, an’ ’ow 
it do ’appen that the purttiest flowers is the quickest gone, 

an’ the brightest wimin too, for that matter, — an’ — an’ ” 

Here his rough halting voice broke into a hoarse sob — “ Oh, 
Passon, it’s a blow ! — it’s a mortal ’ard blow ! — she was a dear, 
sweet lady an’ a good one, say what they will, an’ ’ow they 
will — an’ she’s gone, Passon! — we won’t never see her no 
more ! — she’s gone ! ” 

A swirling blackness came over Walden’s eyes for a moment. 
He tried to realise what was being said, but could not grasp 
its meaning. Making a strong effort to control his nerves he 
spoke, slowly and with difficulty. 

“ Gone ? I don’t understand you, 1 ” 

Here, as he stood at the open doorway, he saw in the 
gathering dusk of evening a small crowd of villagers moving 
slowly along the road. Some burden was being carried 
tenderly between them, — it was like a walking funeral. Some- 
one was dead then? He puzzled himself as to who it could 
be? He was the parson of the parish, — he had received no 
intimation! And the hour was late, — they must put it off 
till to-morrow ! Yes — till to-morrow, when he would see 
Maryllia ! Startled by the sudden ghastly pallor of his master’s 
face, Bainton ventured to lay a hand on his arm. 

“ She was found two hours ago,” — he said, in hushed tones— 
“Up on Farmer Thorpe’s ploughed field — all crushed on the 
clods, an’ no one nigh ’er ’cept the mare. An’ the mare was 
as sensible as a ’uman, for she was a-whinnyin’ loud like cryin’ 
for ’elp — an’ Dr. Forsyth ’e came by in his gig, drivin’ ’ome 
i r n Riversford an’ he ’ad his man with ’im, so ’tween them 


God’s Good Man 469 

both, they got some ’elp an’ brought ’er J ome — but Fm feared 
it’s too late ! — I’m awesome feared it’s too late ! ” 

Walden looked straight down the road, watching the 
oncoming of the little crowd. 

“ I think I begin to know what you mean,” he said, slowly. 
“ There has been an accident to Miss Vancourt. She has 
been thrown — but she is not dead! Not dead. Of course 
not ! She could not be ! 99 

As he spoke, he pushed aside Bainton’s appealing hand 
gently yet firmly and walked out bareheaded like a man in 
a dream to meet the little ghost-like procession that was now 
approaching him nearly. He felt himself trembling violently, 
— had he been called upon to meet his own instant destruction 
at that moment, he would have been far less unnerved. Low 
on the wet autumnal wind came the sound of men’s murmuring 
voices, of women’s suppressed sobbing; — in the semi-obscurity 
of fading light and deepening shadow he could discern and 
recognise the figure of his friend the local doctor, ‘Jimmy’ 
Forsyth, who was walking close beside a hastily improvised 
stretcher composed of the boughs of trees and covered with 
men’s coats and driving-rugs, — and he could see the shadowy 
shape of ‘ Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,’ being led slowly on 
in the rear, her proud head drooping dejectedly, her easy 
stride changed to a melancholy limping movement, — her 
saddle empty. And, as he looked, some nerve seemed to tighten 
across his brows, — a burning ache and strain, as if a strong 
cord stretched to a tension of acutest agony tortured his brain, 
— and for a moment he lost all other consciousness but the 
awful sense of death, — death in the air, — death in the cold 
rain — death in the falling leaves — death in the deepening 
gloom of the night, — and death, palpable, fierce and cruel in 
the solemn gliding approach of that funeral group, — that 
hearse-like burden of the perished brightness, the joyous 
innocence, the sunny smile, the radiant hair, the sweet frank 
eyes — the all of beauty that was once Maryllia ! Then, 
unaware of his own actions, he went forward giddily, blindly 

and unreasoningly till, coming face to face with the little 

moving group of awed and weeping people, all of whom halted 
abruptly at sight of him, he suddenly stretched forth his 
hands as though they held a book at arm’s length, and his 
voice, tremulous, yet resonant, struck through the hush of 
sudden silence. 

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he 


470 


God’s Good Man 


that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: 
and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die ! ” 

A tragic pause ensued. Every face was turned upon him in 
tearful wonder. Dr. Forsyth came quickly up to him. 

“ Walden!” he said, in a low tone — “What is this? What 
are you saying? You are not yourself! Come home! ” 

But John stood rigidly inert. His tall slight figure, fully 
erect, looked almost spectral in the mists of the gathering 
night. He went on reciting solemnly, — 

“ I know that my Kedeemer liveth, and that He shall stand 
at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy 
this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see 
for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another ! 99 

Here there was a general movement of consternation in 
the little crowd. Parson Walden was beginning to read the 
burial service! Then men whispered to one another, — and 
some of the women, burst out crying bitterly. Dr. Forsyth 
became alarmed. 

“ John ! ” he said, imperatively — “ Bouse yourself, man ! 
You are ill — I see you are ill, — but I cannot attend to you 
now! Try not to delay me, for God’s sake! Miss Vancourt 
is seriously injured — but I may save her life. She is not 
dead.” 

Something snapped like a broken harp-string behind 
Walden’s temples, — the horrible tension was relieved. 

“Not dead — not dead?” he muttered — “Not dead? For- 
syth, are you sure ? ” 

“Sure!” 

His face changed and softened, — a sudden sweet moisture 
freshened his eyes. 

“ Thank God ! ” he murmured. 

Then he looked about him like a man suddenly wakened 
from sleep. He was still unable quite to realise his surround- 
ings or what he had done. 

“Forgive me!” he said, pathetically — “I am afraid I have 
been a trouble to you! I’ve been studying too much thi3 
afternoon, — and — and — I don’t know why I came out here just 
now — I’ll — I’ll go in. Will you let me know how how ” 

Forsyth nodded comprehensively. 

“ You shall know everything — best or worst — to-morrow,” — 
he said — “But now go in and lie down, Walden! You want 
rest ! ” 

At an imperative sign from him, Walden obediently turned 
away, not daring to look at the men that now passed him. 


God’s Good Man 


471 


carrying Maryllia’s senseless form back to Abbot’s Manor, the 
beloved home from which she had ridden forth so gaily that 
morning. He re-entered the still open doorway of his rectory, 
wholly unconscious that his parishioners, deeply affected by 
his strange and sudden mind-bewilderment, were now all as 
anxious about him as they were about Maryllia, — he was too 
dazed to see that the faithful Bainton still waited for him on 
his own threshold, or that his servant Hester was still crying 
as though her heart would break. He passed all and everyone 
— and went straight upstairs to his own bedroom, where he 
closed and locked the door. There, smiling down upon him 
was the portrait of his dead sister, — and there too, just above 
his bed was an engraving of the tragically sweet Head crowned 
with thorns, of Guido’s 4 Ecce Homo.’ On this his gaze rested 
abstractedly. His temples ached and throbbed, and there was 
a dull cold heaviness at his heart. Keeping his eyes still on 
the pictured face of Christ, he dropped on his knees, clasped 
his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. How should he 
appeal to a God who was cruel enough to kill a bright creature 
like Maryllia in the very zenith and fair flowering-time of her 
womanhood! — an innocent happy soul that had no thought or 
wish to do anyone any harm! And then he remembered his 
own reproaches to his friend Bishop Brent whom he had 
accused of selfishness for allowing his life to be swayed by the 
memory of an inconsolable sorrow and loss. ‘You draw a 
mourning veil of your own across the very face of God ! ’ So 
he had said, — and was he not ready now to do the frame? 
Suddenly, like the teasing refrain of a haunting melody, there 
came back to hi3 mind the verse he had read that morning : 

“ As she fled fast thro* sun and shade. 

The happy winds upon her play’d. 

Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 

She look’d so lovely as she sway’d 
The rein with dainty finger-tips. 

A man had given all other bliss. 

And all his worldly wealth for this, 

To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips.” 


Over and over these rhymes went, jingling their sweet con« 
cord in his brain, — till all at once the strong pressure upon his 
soul relaxed, — a great sigh escaped his lips — and with the sigh 
came the sudden breaking of the wave of grief. A rush of 


472 


God’s Good Man 


scalding tears blinded his eyes — and with a hard sob of agony 
his head fell forward on his clasped hands. 

“ Spare me her life, O God ! ” he passionately prayed — u Oh 
God, oh God ! Save Guinevere ! ” 


XXX 


A nd now a cloud of heavy sorrow and foreboding hung over 
“the little village. All its inhabitants were oppressed by a 
dreary sense of helpless wretchedness and personal loss. 
Maryllia was not dead, — but it was to be feared that she 
was dying, — slowly, and by inches as it were, yet nevertheless 
surely. A great specialist had been summoned from London 
by Dr. Forsyth, and after long and earnest consultation, his 
verdict upon her case had been well-nigh hopeless. Thereupon 
Cicely Bourne was immediately sent for, and arrived from 
Paris in all haste, only to fall into a state of utter despair. 
For there seemed no possible chance of saving the dear and 
valuable life of her beloved friend and protectress to whom 
she owed all her happiness, all her future prospects. And 
thus confronted with a tragedy more dire and personal than 
any she had ever pictured in her wildest imaginative efforts, 
she sat by Maryllia’s bedside, hour after hour, day after day, 
night after night, stunned by grief, watching, weeping, and 
waiting for the least glimmer of returning consciousness in 
that unconscious form which lay so terribly inert, like a figure 
of life-in-death before her, till she became the mere gaunt 
little ghost of herself, her large melancholy dark eyes alone 
expressing the burning vital anguish of her soul. A telegram 
conveying the sad news of her niece’s accident had been sent 
to Mrs. Fred Vancourt at the Gezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, 
to which, with the happy vagueness which so often charac- 
terizes the ultra-fashionable woman, Mrs. Fred had replied 
direct to Maryllia herself thus: 

“ So glad to know where you really are at last, but sorry 
you have met with a spill. Hope you have a good doctor and 
nurses. Will write on return from expedition to Luxor. Lord 
Boxmouth much regrets to hear of accident and thinks it lucky 
you are back in your own home.” 

Of course this ‘sympathetic’ message was not read by its 
intended recipient at the time of its arrival. Maryllia lay 
blind, deaf and senseless to all that was going on around her, 

473 


God’s Good Man 


474 

and for many days gave no sign of life whatever save a faint 
nneasy breathing and an occasional moan. Cicely was left 
alone to face all difficulties, to receive and answer all messages 
and to take upon herself for the time being the ostensible 
duties of the mistress of Abbot’s Manor. She bent her ener- 
gies to the task, though she felt that her heart must break in 
the effort, — and with tears blinding her eyes, she told poor Mrs. 
Spruce, who was quite stupefied by the sudden crash of 
misfortune that had fallen upon the household, that she meant 
to try and do her best to keep everything going on just as 
Maryllia would wish it kept, “till — till — she gets better,” — 
she faltered sobbingly — “and you will help me, dear Mrs. 
Spruce, won’t you ? ” 

Whereupon Mrs. Spruce took the poor child into her 
motherly arms, and they both cried and kissed each other, 
moved by the same common woe. 

The Manor was soon besieged with callers. Everyone in 
the county flocked thither to leave cards, and express their 
sympathy for the unfortunate mischance that had overtaken 
the bright creature who had been the cynosure of all eyes for 
her beauty and grace on the morning of the first fox-hunt of 
the year. All the ill-natured gossip, all the slanderous tittle- 
tattle which had been started by Lord Roxmouth and fostered 
by Miss Tabitha Pippitt, ebbed and died away in the great 
wave of honest regret and kindly pity that pervaded the whole 
neighbourhood. Even Sir Morton Pippitt, smitten by com- 
punction for certain selfish motives which had inspired him 
to serve Lord Roxmouth as a willing tool, was an indefatigable, 
almost daily enquirer as to Maryllia’s condition, for though 
pompous, blusterous, and to a very great extent something of 
a snob, his nature was not altogether lacking in the milk of 
human kindness like that of his daughter Tabitha. She, still 
smarting under the jealous conviction that John Walden was 
secretly enamoured of the Lady of the Manor, had heard the 
strange story of his having so far forgotten his usual self as 
to wander out bareheaded in the evening air and recite the 
commencement of the burial service like a man distraught 
when Maryllia’s crushed body had been brought home, and 
she thought of it often with an inward rage she could scarcely 
conceal. Almost, — such was her acrimony and vindictiveness 
— she wished Maryllia would die. 

“ Serve her right ! ” she said to herself, setting her thin lips 
spitefully together — “ Serve her right ! ” 

There are a great many eminently respectable ladies of 


God’s Good Man 


475 

Mias Tabitha’s temperament who always say ‘ Serve her right/ 
when a pretty and charming woman, superior to themselves, 
meets with some misfortune. They regard it as a just dis- 
pensation of Providence. 

John Walden meanwhile had braced himself to face the 
worst that could happen. Or rather, as he chose to put it, 
strength, not his own, had been given him to stand up, albeit 
feebly, under the shock of unexpected disaster. Pale, com- 
posed, punctilious in the performance of all his duties, and 
patiently attentive to the needs of his parishioners, he went 
about among them as usual in his own quiet, sympathetic way 
just as if his heart were not crying out in fierce rebellion 
against inexorable destiny, — and as if he were not wildly 
clamouring to be near her whom, now that she was being taken 
from him, he knew that he loved with an ardour far deeper 
and stronger than with the same passion common to men 
in the first flush of their early manhood. And though he sent 
Bainton every day up to the Manor to make enquiries about 
her, he never went near the place himself. He could not. 
Brave as he tried to be, he could not meet Cicely Bourne. 
He knew that one look into the little singer’s piteous dark eyes 
would have broken him down completely. 

Every night Dr. 1 Jimmy’ Forsyth came to the rectory with 
the latest details respecting Maryllia’s condition, — though 
for weeks there was no change to report. She was suffering 
from violent concussion of the brain, and was otherwise 
seriously injured, but Forsyth would not as yet state how 
serious the injuries were. For he guessed Walden’s secret, 
and was deeply touched by the quiet patience and restrained 
sorrow of the apparently calm, self-contained man who, not- 
withstanding his own inward acute agony, never forgot a single 
detail having to do with the poor or sick of the parish, — who 
soothed little Ipsie Frost’s bewildered grief concerning her 
6 poor bootiful white lady-love/ — and who sat with old Josey 
Letherbarrow by his cottage fire, trying as best he could to 
explain, ay, even to excuse the mysterious ways of divine Provi- 
dence as apparently shown in the visitation of cruel affliction 
on the head of a sweet and innocent woman. Josey was a little 
dazed about it all and could not be brought to realise that 
c th’ owld Squire’s gel ’ might never rise from her bed again. 

“ G’arn with ye ! ” he said, indignantly, to the melancholy 
village gossips who came in to see him and shake their heads 
generally over life and its brief vanities — “ Th’ Almighty Lord 
ain’t a pulin’, spiteful, hoppitty kicketty devil wot ain’t sure of 


God’s Good Man 


476 

’is own mind ! He don’t make a pretty thing just to break it 
agin all for nowt! Didn’t ye all come clickettin’ to me about 
the Five Sister beeches, an’ ain’t they still stannin’ ? An’ Miss 
Maryllia ’ull stan’ too just as fast an’ firm as the trees, — you 
take my wurrd for’t! She ain’t goin’ to die! Why look at 
me — just on ninety, an’ I ain’t dead yet ! ” 

But a qualm of fear and foreboding came over him whenever 
‘Passon’ visited him. John’s sad face told him more than 
words could express. 

“ Ain’t she no better, Passon ? ” he would ask, timidly and 
tremblingly. 

And John, laying his own hand on the old brown wrinkled 
one, would reply gently, 

“No better, Josey! But we must hope, — we must hope 
always, and believe that God will be merciful.” 

“An’ if He ain’t merciful, what’ll we do?” persisted Josey 
once, with tears in his poor dim eyes. 

“We must submit!” answered John, almost sternly — “We 
must believe that He knows what is wise and good for her — 
and for us all! And we must live out our lives patiently 
without her, Josey! — patiently, till the blessed end — till that 
peace cometh which passeth all understanding ! ” 

And Josey, looking at him, was awed by the pale spiritual 
serenity of his features and the tragic human grief of his eyes. 

One person in the neighbourhood proved himself a mainstay 
of help and consolation during this time of general anxiety 
and suspense, and this was Julian Adderley. He was always 
at hand and willing to be of service. He threw his 1 dreams 9 
of poesy to the winds and became poet in earnest, — poet in 
sympathy with others, — poet in kindly thought, — poet in 
constant delicate ways of solace to the man he had learned to 
respect above all others, and whose unspoken love and despair 
he recognised with more passionate appreciation than any 
grandly written tragedy. He had gone at once to the Manor 
on Cicely’s arrival there, and had laid himself, metaphorically 
so to speak, at her feet. When she had first seen him, all 
oppressed by the weight of her sorrow as she was, she had 
burst out crying, whereat he had, without the slightest hesita- 
tion or embarrassment, taken her in his arms and kissed her. 
^Neither he nor she seemed the least surprised at the sponta- 
neity of their mutual caress, — it came quite naturally. “ It 
was so new — so fresh!” said Julian afterwards. And from 
that eventful moment, he had installed himself more or less at 
the Manor, under Cicely’s orders. He wrote letters for her. 


God’s Good Man 


477 


answered telegrams, drew up a formal list of ‘Callers’ and 
1 Enquiries/ kept accounts, went errands for the two trained 
nurses who were in day and night attendance on the uncon- 
scious invalid upstairs, and made himself generally useful and 
reliable. But his ‘ fantastic ’ notions were the same as ever. 
He would not, as he put it, ‘ partake of food f at the Manor 
while its mistress was lying ill, — nor would he allow any 
servant in the household to wait upon him. He merely came 
and went, quietly to and fro, giving his best services to all, and 
never failing to visit Walden every day, and tell him all the 
latest news. He even managed to make friends with the 
great dog Plato, who, ever since Mary Ilia’s accident, had 
taken up regular hours of vigil outside her bedroom door, 
regardless of doctor and nurses, though he would move his 
leonine body gently aside whenever they passed in or out, 
showing a perfectly intelligent comprehension of their business. 
Plato every now and again would indulge in a walk abroad 
with Julian, accompanying him as far as the rectory, where he 
would enter, laying his broad head on Walden’s knee with a 
world of sympathy in his loving brown eyes, while Nebbie, half- 
jealous, half-gratified, squatted humbly in the shadow of his 
feathery tail. And John found a certain melancholy pleasure 
in caressing the very dog Maryllia loved, and would sit, 
thoughtfully stroking the animal’s thick coat, while Adderley 
and Dr. Forsyth, both of whom were now accustomed to meet 
in his little study every evening, discussed the pros and cons 
of what was likely to happen when Maryllia woke from her long 
trance of insensibility. Would her awakening be to life or 
death? John listened to their talk, himself saying nothing, all 
unaware that they talked merely to cheer him and to try and 
put the best light they could on the face of affairs in order to 
give him the utmost hope. 

The weary days rolled on in rain and gloom, — Christmas 
came and went with a weight and dullness never before known 
in St. Best. Every Sunday since the accident, Walden had 
earnestly requested the prayers of his congregation for Miss 
Vancourt, 1 who was seriously ill ’ — and on Christmas Day, he 
gave out the same request, with a pathetic alteration in the 
wording, which as he uttered it, caused many people to sob as 
they listened. 

“ The prayers of this congregation,” he said — “ are desired 
for Maryllia Vancourt, who has been much beloved among 
you, and whose life is now in imminent peril ! ” 

A chill seemed to strike through the church, — an icy blast 


God’s Good Man 


478 

far colder than the wintry wind, — the alabaster sarcophagus in 
front of the altar seemed all at once invested with a terrible 
significance, — death, and death only was the sovereign ruler 
of the world! And when the children’s choir rose to give 
the 'Hark the herald angels sing. Glory to the new-born 
King’ — their voices were unsteady and fell out of tune into 
tears. 

Maryllia was indeed in ‘ imminent peril/ She had become 
suddenly restless, and her suffering had proportionately in- 
creased. At the earliest symptom of returning consciousness, 
the attention of the watchers at her bedside became redoubled ; 
— should she speak, they were anxious to hear the first word 
that escaped her lips. For as yet, no one knew how she 
had come by her accident. None of the hunters had seen 
her fall, and Bennett the groom, stoutly refused to believe 
that the mare had either missed her jump, or thrown her 
mistress. 

“ She couldn’t have done it,” — he declared — “ And if she 
could, she wouldn’t! She’s too sensible, and Miss Vancourt’s 
too sure a rider. Something’s at the bottom of it all, and I’d 
give a good deal to find out what it is, and who it is ! ” 

Thus said Bennett, with many dark nods of meaning, and 
gradually the idea that Maryllia had been the victim of foul 
play, took root in the minds of all the villagers who heard him. 
Everyone in the place was on the watch for a clue, — a whisper, 
— a stray suggestion as to the possible cause of the mischief. 
But so far nothing had been discovered. 

On the night before the last of the year, Maryllia, who had 
been tossing uneasily all the afternoon, and moaning piteously, 
suddenly opened her eyes and looked about her with a 
frightened air of recognition.. Cicely, always at hand with the 
nurse in attendance, went quickly to the bedside in a tremour 
of hope and fear. 

“ Maryllia ! Dearest, do you know me ? ” 

She stared vaguely, and a faint smile hovered about her lips. 
Then her brows suddenly knitted into a perplexed, pained 
frown, and she said quite clearly — 

“ It was Oliver Leach ! ” 

Cicely gave a little cry. The nurse warned her into silence 
by a gesture. There was a pause. Maryllia looked from one 
to the other wistfully. 

“ It. was not Cleo’s fault,” she went on, speaking slowly, 
but distinctly— Cleo never missed. Oliver Leach took the 
hedge just behind us. It was wrong! He meant to kill me. 


God’s Good Man 


479 


I saw it in his face ! ” She shuddered violently, and her 
eyelids closed. “ He was cruel — cruel ! ” she murmured feebly 
— “ But I was too happy ! ” 

She drifted again into a stupor, — and Cicely, her whole soul 
awakened by these broken words into a white heat of wrath 
and desire for vengeance, left the room with sufficient infor- 
mation to set the whole village in an uproar. Oliver Leach! 
In less than four-and-twenty hours, the news was all over the 
place. The spreading wave of indignation soon rose to an 
overwhelming high tide, and had Leach shown himself any- 
where hi or near the village he would have stood an un- 
commonly good chance of being first horsewhipped, and then 
‘ ducked ’ in the river by an excited crowd. Oliver Leach ! 
The hated, petty upstart who had ground down the Abbot’s 
Manor tenantry to the very last penny that could be wrested 
from them ! — who had destroyed old cherished land-marks, and 
made ugly havoc in many once fair woodland places in order 
to put money in his own pocket, — even he, so long an object 
of aversion among them, was the would-be murderer of the last 
descendant of the Vancourts! The villagers talked of nothing 
else, — quiet and God-fearing rustics as they were, they had no 
patience with treachery, meanness and cowardice, and were 
the last kind of people in the world to hold their peace on a 
matter of wickedness or injustice, merely because Leach was 
in the employ of several neighbouring land-owners, including 
Sir Morton Pippitt. Murmurs and threats ran from mouth to 
mouth, and Walden when he heard of it, said nothing for, or 
against, their clamour for revenge. The rage and sorrow of 
his own soul were greater than the wrath of combined 
hundreds, — and his feeling was all the more deep and terrible 
because it found no expression in words. The knowledge 
that such a low and vile creature as Oliver Leach had been the 
cause, and possibly the intentional cause of Maryllia’s grievous 
suffering and injury, moved him to realise for the first time in 
his life what it was to be conscious of a criminal impulse. He 
himself longed to kill the wretch who had brought such 
destruction on a woman’s beauty and happiness! — and it was 
with a curious sort of satisfaction that he found himself called 
upon in the ordinary course of things to read at evening 
service during the first week in January, the Twenty-eighth 
Psalm, wherein David beseeches God to punish the ungodly. 

“ Reward them according to their deeds, and according to the 
wickedness of their own inventions! 


God’s Good Man 


480 

“Recompense them after the work of their hands: pay them 
that they have deserved! ” 

Such demands for the punishment of one’s enemies may not 
be ‘ Christian,’ but they are Scriptural, and as such, John felt 
himself justified in pronouncing them with peculiar emphasis 
and fervour. 

Meanwhile, by slow degrees, the ‘imminent peril' passed, 
and Maryllia came back to her conscious self, — a self that was 
tortured in every nerve by pain, — but, with the return of her 
senses came also her natural sweetness and gentleness, which 
now took the form of a touching patience, very sad, yet very 
beautiful to see. The first little gleam of gladness in her eyes 
awoke for Cicely, — to whom, as soon as she recognised her, 
she put up her lips to be kissed. Her accident had not 
disfigured her, — the fair face had been spared, though it was 
white and drawn with anguish. But she could not move her 
limbs, — and when she had proved this for herself, she lay very 
still, thinking quietly, with a dream-like wonder and sorrow in 
her blue eyes, like the wistfulness in the eyes of a wounded 
animal that knows not why it should be made to suffer 
Docile to her nurses, and grateful for every little service, she 
remained for some days in a sort of waking reverie, holding 
Cicely’s hand often, and asking her an occasional question 
about the house, the gardens and the village. And January 
was nearly at an end, when she began at last to talk connectedly 
and to enquire closely as to her own actual condition. 

“ Am I going to die, Cicely?” she asked one morning — 
“ You will tell me the truth, dear, won’t you ? I would rather 
know.” 

Cicely choked back her tears, and smiled bravely. 

“ No, darling, no ! You are better, — but but you will be 

a long time ill ! ” 

Maryllia looked at her searchingly, and sighed a little. 

“ What have they done with Cleo ? ” she murmured. 

“ Cleo is all right,” — said Cicely— >“ She was badly hurt, but 
Bennett knows how you love her, and he is doing all he can 
for her. She will never hunt again, I’m afraid ! ” 

“Nor shall I!” and Maryllia sighed again, and closed her 
eyes to hide the tears that welled up in them. 

There was a dark presentiment in her mind, — a heavy fore- 
boding to which she would not give utterance before Cicely, 
lest it should grieve her. But the next day, when Dr. Forsyth 
paid her his usual visit, and said in his usual cheery way that 


God’s Good Man 


481 

all was e going on well ’ — she startled him by requesting to 
speak to him alone, without anyone else in the room, not even 
the attendant nurse. 

“ It is only a little question I want to ask ! ” she said with 
the faint reflex of her old bright smile on her face — •“ And I’m 
sure you’ll answer it ! ” 

‘ Jimmy’ Forsyth hesitated. He felt desperately uncomfort- 
able. He instinctively knew what her question would be, — a 
question to which there was only one miserable answer. But 
her grave pleading glance was not to be resisted, — so, making 
the best of a bad business, he cleared the room, shut the door, 
and remained in earnest conversation with his patient for half- 
an-hour. And at the end of that time, he went out, with tears 
in his keen eyes, and a suspicious cough catching his throat, as 
he strode away from the Manor through the leafless avenues, 
and heard the branches of the trees rattling like prison chains 
in an angry winter’s wind. 

The worst was said, — and when it was once said, it was soon 
known. Maryllia was not to die — not yet. Fate had willed it 
otherwise. But she was to be a cripple for life. That was her 
doom. Never again would her little feet go tripping through 
the rose gardens and walks of her beloved home, — never would 
her dainty form be borne, a weightless burden, by 6 Cleopatra, 
Queen of Egypt ’ through the flowering woods of spring, — from 
henceforth she would have to be carried by others up and 
down, to and fro, a maimed and helpless creature, with all the 
physical and healthful joys of living cut away from her at one 
cruel blow! And yet — it was very strange! — she herself was 
not stricken with any particular horror or despair at her 
destiny. When, after the doctor had left. Cicely came in, 
trembling and afraid, — Maryllia smiled at her with quite a 
sweet placidity. 

“I know all about myself now,” — she said, quietly — “I’m 
sorry in a way, — because I shall be so useless. But — I have 
escaped Roxmouth for good this time ! ” 

“ Oh my darling ! ” wept Cicely — “ Oh my dear, beautiful 
Maryllia ! If it were only me instead of you ! ” 

Maryllia drew the dark head down on the pillow beside her. 

“ Nonsense ! Why should it have been you ! ” she said, 
cheerfully — “ You will be a delight to the world with your 
voice. Cicely, — whereas I am nothing, and never have been 
anything. I shall not be missed ” 

Her voice faltered a moment, as the thought of John Walden 
suddenly crossed her mind. He would perhaps — only perhaps 


God’s Good Man 


482 

—miss her! Anon, a braver and purely unselfish emotion 
moved her soul, and she began to be almost glad that she was, 
as she said to herself, ‘ laid aside.’ 

“For now,” — she mused — “they can say nothing at all 
about him at my expense. Even Roxmouth’s tongue must 
stop calumniating me, — for though many people are. very 
heartless, they do draw the line at slandering a crippled 
woman ! It’s all for the best, — I’m sure it’s all for the best ! ” 

And a serene contentment took possession of her,— a 
marvellous peace that brought healing in its train, for with 
the earliest days of February, when the first snowdrops were 
beginning to make their white way through the dark earth, she 
was able to be moved from her bed, and carried down to the 
morning room, where, lying on her couch, near a sparkling fire, 
with a bunch of early flowering aconites opening their golden 
eyes in a vase beside her, she looked almost as if she were 
getting well enough soon to rise and walk again. She was 
bright and calm, and quickly managed to impart her own 
brightness and calmness to others. She summoned all the 
servants of the household to her in turn, and spoke to them so 
kindly, and thanked them so sweetly for the trouble and care 
they had taken and were taking on her behalf that they could 
scarcely hide their tears. As for poor Mrs. Spruce, who had 
nervously hesitated to approach her for fear of breaking down 
in her presence, she no sooner made her appearance than 
Maryllia stretched out her arms like a child, with a smile on 
her face. 

“ Come and kiss me, Spruce ! ” she said, almost playfully — 
“and don’t cry! I’m not crying for myself, you see, and I 
• don’t want anyone else to cry for me. You’ll help to make 
the cripple-time pleasant, won’t you ? — yes, of course you will ! 
— and I can do the housekeeping just the same as ever — 
nothing need alter that. Only instead of running about all 
over the place, and getting in the way, I shall have to keep 
still, — and you will always know where to find me. That’s 
something of an advantage. Spruce ! And you’ll talk to me ! — 
oh yes! — trust you for talking, you dear thing! — and I shall 
know just as much about everybody as I want to, — there 
Spruce! — you will cry! — so run away just now, and come 
back presently when you feel better — and braver ! ” 

Whereat Mrs. Spruce had kissed her on the cheek at her 
own request, and had caught her little hand and kissed that, 
and had then hurried out of the room before her rising sobs 
could break out, as they did, into rebellious blubbering. 


God’s Good Man 


483 

“ Which the Lord Almighty’s ways are ’ard to bear ! ” she 
wailed. “ An’ that they’re past findin’ out, no sensible person 
will contradict, for why Miss Maryllia should be laid on ’er 
back an’ me left to stan’ upright is a mystery Gospel itself can’t 
clear! An’ if I could onny see Passon Walden, I’d ask ’im 
what it all means, for if anybody knows it he will, — but he 
won’t see no one, an’ Dr. Forsyth says best not trouble ’im, so 
there I am all at sea without a life-belt, which Spruce bein’ 
’arder of ’earin’ than ever, don’t understand nohow nor never 
will. But if there’s no way out of all this trouble, the Lord 
Himself ain’t as wise as I took ’im for, for didn’t He say to a 
man what ’ad crutches in the Testymen ‘ Arise an’ walk ’ ? — an* 
why shouldn’t He say ‘ Arise an’ walk ’ to Miss Maryllia ? I do 
’ope I’m not sinful, but I’m fair mazed when I see the Lord 
’oldin’ off ’is hand as ’twere, an’ not doin’ the right thing as ’e 
should do ! ” 

Thus Mrs. Spruce argued, and it is to be feared that ‘not 
doing the right thing ’ was rather generally attributed to ‘ the 
Lord,’ by the good folk of St. Best at that immediate period. 
Most of them were thirsting to try a little ‘ right ’ on their own 
account as concerned Oliver Leach. For the whole story was 
now known, — though had Maryllia not told it quite in- 
voluntarily in a state of semi-consciousness, she would 
never have betrayed the identity of her cowardly assailant. 
But finding that she had, unknowingly to herself, related the 
incident as it happened, there was nothing to be done on 
her part, except to entreat that Leach might be allowed to 
go unpunished. This, however, was a form of ultra-Chris- 
tianity which did not in any way commend itself to the 
villagers of St. Rest. They were on the watch for him day 
and night, — scouts traversed the high road to Riversford from 
east to west, from north to south in the hope of meeting him 
driving along to the town as usual on his estate agency 
business, but not a sign of him had been seen since the 
evening of the fox-hunt, when Maryllia’s body had been found 
in Farmer’s Thorpe’s field. Then, one of Adam Frost’s eldest 
boys had noticed him talking to the Reverend Putwood 
Leveson at the entrance of the park surrounding Badsworth 
Hall, but since that time he had not shown himself, and 
enquiries at his cottage failed to elicit other informa won than 
that he was ‘not at home.’ The people generally suspected 
him of being ‘ in hiding,’ and they were not far wrongs 

One day, soon after her first move from her bedroom to the 
morning room, and when she had grown in part accustomed 


God’s Good Man 


484 

to being carried up and down, Maryllia suddenly expressed a 
wish to hear the village choir. 

“I should like the children to come and sing to me,” — she 
said to Cicely — “ You remember the hymn they sang on that 
one Sunday I went to church last summer — ‘ The Lord is 
my Shepherd’? You sang it with them. Cicely, — and it wag 
so very sweet! Couldn’t they come up here to the Manor 
and sing it to me again ? ” 

“ Of course they could if you wish it, darling ! ” said Cicely, 
blinking away the tears that were only too ready to fall at 
every gentle request proffered by her friend — “And I’m sure 
they will ! I’ll go now and tell Miss Eden you want them.” 

“ Yes, do ! ” said Maryllia, eagerly — “ And, Cicely, — wait a 
minute ! Have you seen Mr. Walden at all since I’ve been ill ? ” 

“ No,” — replied Cicely, quietly — “ He has not been very well 
himself, so Dr. Eorsyth says, — and he has not been about 
much except to perform service on Sundays, and to visit his 
sick parishioners ” 

“Well, I am a sick parishioner!” said Maryllia — “Why 
should he leave me out ? ” 

Cicely looked at her very tenderly. 

“I don’t think he has left you out, darling! I fancy he 
has thought of you a great deal. He has sent to enquire after 
you every day.” 

Maryllia was silent for a minute. Then, with her own quaint 
little air of authority and decision, she said — 

“Well! — I want to see him now. In fact, I must see him, 
• — not only as a friend, but as a clergyman. Because you 
know I may not live very long ” 

“ Maryllia ! ” cried Cicely, passionately — ■“ Don’t say that ! ” 

“ I won’t, if you don’t like it ! ” and Maryllia smiled up at 
her from her pillows — “But I think I should like to speak 
to Mr. Walden. So, as you will be passing the rectory on 
your way to fetch Miss Eden and the children, will you go 
in and ask him if he will come up and see me this after- 
noon ? ” 

“ I will ! ” And. Cicely ran out of the room with a sense 
of sudden, inexplicable excitement which she could scarcely 
conceal. Quickly putting on her hat and cloak, she almost 
flew down the Manor avenue, regardless of the fact that it 
was raining dismally, and only noticing that there was a scent 
of violets in the air, and one or two glimmerings of yellow 
crocus peeping like golden spears through the wet mould. 
Arriving at the rectory, she forgot that she had not seen 


God’s Good Man 


485 

Walden at all since Maryllia’s accident, and scarcely waiting 
for the maid Hester to announce her, she hastened into his 
study with startling suddenness. Springing from his chair, 
he confronted her with wild imploring eyes, and a face from 
which ever vestige of colour had fled. 

“ What is it ? ” he muttered faintly — “ Hy God spare me ! — 
she — she is not dead ? ” 

“No, no!” cried Cicely, smitten to the heart with self- 
reproach at her own unthinking impetuosity — “ No — no — no! 
Oh what an utter idiot I am! Oh, Mr. Walden, I didn’t 
think — I didn’t know — oh, dear Mr. Walden, I’m so sorry 

I have alarmed you — do, do forgive me ! ” And she began 

to cry bitterly. 

He looked at her vaguely for a moment, — anon his face 
relaxed, and his eyes softened. Advancing to her, he took 
both her hands and pressed them. 

“ Poor little Cicely ! ” he said, kindly — ■“ So it is you, is 
it? Poor dear little singer! — you have had so much anxiety 

• — and I ” He broke off and turned his head away. 

Then, after a pause, he resumed “It’s all right. Cicely! 

You — you startled me just a little — I scarcely knew you l You 
look so worn out, dear child, and no wonder! What can I do 
to cheer you ? Is she — is she still going on well ? ” 

Cicely raised her dark, tear-wet eyes to his in a kind of 
wistful wonder. Then she suddenly stooped and kissed the 
hands that held her own. 

“ Homage to a brave man ! ” she said, impulsively — “ You 
are brave ! — don’t contradict me, because I won’t stand it ! ” 
She detached her hands from his and tried to laugh. “Is 
she going on well, you ask? Yes, — as well as she can. But 
-^you know she will be a cripple — always ? ” 

Walden bent his head sadly. 

“ I know ! ” 

“And it’s all through those terrible e Five Sister* beeches! 99 
she went on — “ If Oliver Leach had been allowed to cut them 
down, Maryllia would never have gone out to save them that 
morning, or given the wretched man his dismissal. And he 
wouldn’t have cursed her, or tried to murder her ! ” 

Walden shuddered a little. 

“Then it is quite as much my fault as anybody else’s. 
Cicely,” — he said, wearily — “ For I had something to do with 
the saving of the old trees. At any rate, I did not exercise my 
authority as I might have done to pacify the villagers, when 


God’s Good Man 


486 

their destruction was threatened. I feel somehow that I have 
my share of blame in the disaster.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” snapped out Cicely, sharply, almost angrily— 
“ Why should you take the sins of everyone in the parish on 
your shoulders? Broad as they are, you can draw the line 
somewhere surely! You might as well blame poor old Josey 
Letherbarrow. He was the one who persuaded Maryilia to 
save the Five Sisters, — and if you were to tell him that all the 
trouble had come through him, he’d die ! Poor old dear ! ” 
She laughed a trifle hysterically. “It’s nobody’s fault, I 
suppose. It’s destiny.” 

John sighed heavily. 

“ Of course,” went on Cicely desperately — “ Maryilia may 
live a long time, — or she may not. She thinks not. And 
because she thinks not, she wants to see you.” 

He started nervously. 

“ To see me? " 

“ Yes. It’s perfectly natural, isn’t it ? Isn’t it your business 

to visit the sick, — and ” He interrupted her by a quick 

gesture. 

“Not dying,” — he said — “I will not have the word used! 
She is not dying — she will not die ! She shall not ! ” 

His eyes flashed — he looked all at once like an inspired 
apostle with the gift of life in his hand. Cicely watched him 
with a sudden sense of awe. 

“If you say so,” — she faltered slowly — “ perhaps she will 
not. Go and see her ! ” 

“ To-day? ” 

“Yes, — this afternoon. She has asked for the school chil- 
dren to come and sing to her, — I shall try to get them about 
four. If you come at five, she will be able to see you — alone.” 

A silence fell between them. 

“I will come!” said John, at last. 

“ That’s right ! Good-bye till then ! ” 

And with a glance more expressive than words. Cicely went. 

Left to himself, John threw open his study windows, and 
stepping out into his garden all wet with rain, made his way 
to its warmest corner, where, notwithstanding inclement 
weather, the loveliest sweet violets were thickly blossoming 
under his glass frames. He began to gather them carefully, 
and massed them . together in bunches of deep purple and 
creamy white, — while Bainton, working at a little distance off, 
looked up in surprise and gratification at the sight of him. 
For it was many weary weeks since 4 Passon ’ had taken any 


God’s Good Man 


487 


interest in his * forced blooms.’ Nebbie, having got thoroughly 
draggled and muddy by jumping wildly after his master 
through an exceedingly wet tangle of ivy, sat demurely 
watching him, as the little heap of delicately scented blossoms 
increased. 

“ The violets are doing wonderfully well this year, Bainton,” 
—he presently said, with his old kind smile, addressing his 
gardener — “I am taking these to Miss Yancourt this after- 
noon.” 

Bainton lifted his cap respectfully. 

“ God bless her ! ” he said, “ An’ you too, Passon ! 99 

And John, holding the fragrant bunch of small sweet flowers 
tenderly in his hand, answered gently — 

“ Thank you, my friend! I hope He will! ” 


XXXI 


fTiHE rain cleared off in the afternoon and a bright glint 
A of sunshine shone through the slowly dispersing clouds, 
enabling the children of the village choir to put on their best 
frocks and hats for the important function to which Cicely had 
summoned them. There was great excitement among these 
little people. That they should be specially asked to sing to 
Miss Vancourt was to them an unexpected and unprecedented 
honour, and filled them with speechless delight and pride. 
They were all very shy and nervous, however, and it was with 
quite a trembling awe that they scraped their feet on the 
polished oak floors of the Manor, and dragged them hesitat- 
ingly and timidly along into the morning room where Maryllia 
lay peacefully resting, and awaiting their approach. Her 
nurses had attired her freshly and becomingly, and had wrapped 
her in soft pale rose cashmere with delicate ribbons of the same 
hue tying it about her, while, her lovely hair, loosely knotted 
on the top of her head, was caught together by a comb edged 
with pink coral which gave just the contrasting touch of colour 
to the gold-brown curls. She turned a smiling happy face on 
the children as they entered, and to Miss Eden and her young 
assistant, Susie Prescott, she held out her hand. 

“ It is so good of you to humour me in my fancy ! ” she 
said; “I loved the little hymn you all sang on the Sunday I 
came to church with my friends — don’t you remember? — and 
I want to hear it again. I came in late to service that day, 
didn’t I? — yes! — it was so wrong of me! But I should never 
do it again if I had the chance. Unfortunately we are always 
sorry for our wrong-doings too late ! ” She smiled again, and 
in answer to murmured words of sympathy from Miss Eden, 
and the sight of tears in the eyes of Susie Prescott, made 
haste to say — “ Oh no! — I’m not in any pain just now. You 
need not think that. I am just helpless — that’s all. But I’ve 
got all my reasoning faculties back, thank God ! — and my sight 
has been spared. I can read and write, and enjoy music, — so 
you see how many blessings are still left to me! Will you ask 
the children to begin now, please? There is not a piano in 

488 


God’s Good Man 489 

this room, — but Cicely will play the accompaniment on the old 
spinet — it’s quite in tune. And she will sing with you.” 

In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient 
instrument of Charles the Second’s day, and Cicely, keeping 
her hands well pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed 
to evoke from them something like a faint, far-off organ-like 
sound. Falteringly at first, and then more clearly and steadily, 
as Cicely’s full round voice assisted them, the children sang— 

“ The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not want, 

He maketh me down to lie 
In pleasant fields where the lilies grow. 

And the river runneth by.” 

Maryllia listened, watching them. The declining sunlight, 
pale as it was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, 
and bashfully shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eye3 
fixed upon her, they went on tunefully— 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me. 

In the depth of a desert land. 

And, lest I should in the darkness slip, 

He holdeth me by the hand. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. 

My mind on Him is stayed, 

And though through the Valley of Death I walk, 

I shall not be afraid! ” 

Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody. Some 
one in the little choir broke down, — but Cicely covered the 
break with a tender chord, and the young voices rose above it. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet, 

Leave me not here to stray, 

But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold. 

And keep me there, I pray! ” 

With each verse, the harmony grew sweeter and more solemn, 
till Maryllia, lying back on her pillows with closed eyes 
through which the tears would creep despite herself, began to 
feel earth very far away and heaven very near. At the ‘ Amen/ 

she said : . . _ _ , _ .... 

“ Thank you ! That was beautiful ! Do you mind singing 

the third verse over again ? ” 

They obeyed, looking at Cicely for the lead. 


490 


God’s Good Man 


“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want; 

My mind on Him is stayed, 

And though through the Valley of Death I walk, 

I shall not be afraid! ” 

There was a silence. 

“Now,” breathed Cicely softly — “now the Amen!” 

Full and grave came the solemn chord and the young fresh 
voices with it, — 

“ A — men ! ” 

And then Cicely went up to Maryllia and bent over her. 

“ Are you pleased, dearest ? ” 

She was very quiet. There were tears in her eyes, but at the 
question, she smiled. 

“Very pleased! And very happy! Take the children away 
now and give them tea. Arid thank them all for me, — say I 
will see them again some day when I am stronger — when I do 
not feel inclined to cry quite so easily ! ” 

In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had 
made their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to her- 
self in the deepening twilight, — a twilight illumined brightly 
every now and again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log 
fire. Suddenly the door which had just been closed after the 
children, gently opened again, and Cicely entering, said in 
rather a tremulous voice — 

“ Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia.” 

Whereat she quickly disappeared. 

Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched 
John’s tall straight figure slowly approaching. A delicate, 
Spring-like odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that 
he carried a bunch of violets. Then she held out her hand. 

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!” 

He tried to speak, but could not. Without a word he laid 
the violets gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch. She 
took them up at once and kissed them. 

“ How sweet they are ! ” she murmured — “ The first I have 
had given to me this year ! ” 

She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair 
close beside her. 

“Will you sit near me?” she said— “And then we can 
talk ! ” 

# Silently he obeyed. To see her lying there so quietly re- 
signed and helpless, nearly unmanned him, hut he did brave 
battle with his own emotions. He took her little offered hand 
and gently kissed it. If to touch its soft smooth whiteness 


God’s Good Man 491 

sent fire through his veins, there was no sign of feeling in 
his face. He was grave and strangely impassive. 

“ I am grieved to see you like this ” he began. 

“Yes, I am sure you are!” she quickly interrupted him — 
“ But please do not talk about it just now ! I want to forget 
my poor crippled body altogether for a little while. I’ve had 
so much bother with it lately! I want to talk to you about 
my soul. That’s not crippled. And you can tell me just what 
it is and vhat I am to do with it.” 

He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder. 

“ Your soul! ” — he murmured. 

“Yes.” And a shadow of sad and wistful thought dark- 
ened her features — “ You see I may not live very long, — and I 
ought to be properly prepared in case I die. I know you will 
explain everything that is difficult to me, — because you seem 
to be sure of your faith. You remember your sermon on tho 
soul, when I came to church just that once ? ” 

He bent his head. He could find no words with which to 
interrupt her. 

“ Well, I have often thought of it since, — and I have longed 
— oh, so much! — to make a confession to you! But may I 
ask you one or two questions first ? ” 

His dry lips moved — and he whispered, rather than spoke — 

“ You may ! But are you not distressing yourself about 
matters which which perhaps — could wait ? ” 

Her blue eyes regarded him with a wonderful courage. 

“Dear Mr. Walden, I don’t think I ought to wait,” — she 
said, very earnestly — “ Because really no one has ever done 
anything for me in a religious sense, — and if I am to die, you 
are the only person in the world who can help me.” 

He tried to rouse his wandering, ebbing energies. 

“ I will do my best,” — he said, slowly — “ My best, I mean, 
to answer your questions.” 

“You will? — As a clergyman, as a friend and an honest 
man ? — yes, I felt sure you would ! ” And she spoke with 
almost passionate eagerness — “I will put you through your 
catechism, and you shall, if you like, put me through mine! 
How to begin with, — though it seems a strange thing to ask a 
clergyman — do you really believe in God ? ” 

He started, — wakened from his trance of mind by sheer 
amazement. 

“Do I really believe in God? With all my soul, with all 
my heart, I believe in Him ! ” 

“ Many clergymen don’t,” — said Maryllia, gravely studying 


492 


God’s Good Man 


his face, — “That is why I asked. You mustn’t mind! You 
see I have met a great many Churchmen who preach what 
they do not practise, and it has rather worried me. Because, 
of course, if they really believed in God they would be careful 
not to do things which their faith forbids them to do.” 

He was silent. 

“ My next question is just as audacious as my first,” — she 
went on after a pause — “ It is this — do you believe in Christ ? ” 

He rose from his chair and stood tenderly loc ang down 
upon her. His old authoritative energy inspired him, — he had 
now recovered himself sufficiently to be able to trample down 
his own clamorous personal emotions for the time and to think 
only of his spiritual duty. 

“ I believe in Him as the one Divir j Man ever born ! ” he 
said. 

“ Is that quite sufficient for orthodoxy ? ” And she looked 
up at h^m with a half smile. 

“Perhaps not! But I fear orthodoxy and I are scarcely 
the best of friends ! ” he replied — “ Must I really tell you my 
own private form of belief ? ” 

“ Ah yes ! — please do so ! ” she answered gently — “ It will 
help me so much ! ” * 

He paused a moment. Then he said — 

“I believe this, — that Christ was born into the world as a 
Sign and Symbol of the life, death and destined immortality 
of each individual human soul. Into the mystery of His birth 
I do not presume to penetrate. But I see Him as He lived, — 
the embodiment of Truth — crucified ! I see Him dead, — 
rising from the grave to take upon Himself eternal life. I 
accept Him as the true manifestation of the possible Divine 
in Man — for no man before or after Him has had such in- 
fluence upon the human race. And I am convinced that the 
faithful following of His Gospel ensures peace in this world, 
and joy in the world to come! ” 

He paused, and drew nearer to her. “Will that suffice 
you ? ” 

Her eyes were turned away from his, but he could see a 
sparkle as of dew on her lashes. 

“ Sit down by me again,” — she said in a low uncertain 
voice — “ You do believe ! — and now that I know this for cer' 
tain, I can make my confession to you.” 

He resumed his seat beside her couch. 

“ Surely you have nothing to confess ” he said, gently. 


God’s Good Man 493 

61 Why yes, I have ! ” she declared — “ I’ve not been good, 
you know ! ” 

He smiled. 

“ Have you not? ” But his voice trembled a little — “ Well! 
I suppose I must believe you — but it will be difficult ! ” 

She looked down at the bunch of violets she held, and 
touched the purple and white blossoms tenderly. 

“I don’t mean,” — she continued softly — “that I have been 
downright wicked in a criminal sense. Oh no! — I haven’t 
anything to confess that way ! What I mean is that I haven’t 
been religious. Now please let me go straight on and explain 
— will you ? ” 

He made a slight gesture of assent. 

“Well now, to begin with,” she said — “of course when I 
was quite a child, I was taught to say prayers, and I was taken 
to church on Sundays just in the usual way. But I never 
could quite believe there was anyone to listen to my prayers, 
Sind going to church bored me and made me dreadfully sleepy. 
All the clergymen seemed to talk and preach in exactly the 
same way, and they all spoke in the same sing-song voice. 
I found it very dull and monotonous. I was told that God 
lived up in the sky, and that He loved me very much and 
would take care of me always, — but I never could make out 
why, if God loved me, He should not tell me so Himself, 
without the help of a clergyman. Because then I should have 
understood things better. I daresay it was a very wicked 
idea, — but it used to come into my head like that, and I 
couldn’t help it. Then, everything in my life as a child came 
to an end with a great crash as it were, when my father was 
killed. I adored my father! He was always kind to me, — 
always tender! — he was the only man in the world that ever 
loved me! And when he was taken away suddenly from me 
like that, and I was told it was God’s will, I hated God! I 
did really! You know unless you are a born angel, it is 
natural to hate anyone who takes away the dearest and most 
beloved thing you have to live for, isn’t it ? ” 

John turned his head a little away, and looked straight 
before him into the glowing embers of the fire. A deep sigh 
involuntarily escaped him. 

“ I suppose it is natural ! ” he said, slowly — “ But we must 
fight against nature. We must believe that God knows best! ” 

Her eyes, blue as flax-flowers, turned towards him wistfully. 

“You believe that?” she asked — “You are sure that God 


494 


God’s Good Man 


means everything for the best, even when He makes you suffer 
for no fault of your own ? ” 

At this his heart was sorely troubled within him, but he 
answered quietly and firmly — 

“ Yes ! I am sure that God means everything for the best, 
even when He makes me suffer for no fault of my own ! ” 

His voice, always soft and mellow, dropped to a tenderer 
cadence, as, — like a true servant of the Master he served, — 
he faithfully asserted his belief, that even in personal sorrow, 
the Divine will is always a Divine blessing. 

A pause of silence ensued. Then Maryllia went on some- 
what hesitatingly — 

"Well, I was wicked, you see! I could not believe that 
God meant it for the best in killing my father ! And I know 
that my father himself never could understand that God was 
at all good in allowing my mother to die when I was born. So 
that I was quite set against God, when, after my father’s 
death. Uncle Fred and his wife came and took me away to live 
with them, and adopted me as their daughter. And living 
with them, and being always surrounded by the society they 
entertained, made me forget religion altogether. They never 
went to church, — neither did any of the people they called their 
friends. Indeed nobody I ever met in all the 1 sets ’ of Lon- 
don, or Paris, or Hew York ever seemed to think of ' God or 
a future life at all. Some of them went in for what they 
called ‘ spiritualism ’ and deceived each other in the most 
terrible way ! I never heard people tell so many dreadful lies ! 
They used to joke about it afterwards. But no one ever 
seemed to think that religion, — real religion — real Christianity 
— was at all necessary or worth talking about. They called it 
an ‘ exploded myth.’ When I met Cicely Bourne I found that 
she believed in it. And I was quite surprised! Because she 
had such a hard life, and she had always been so cruelly 
treated, that I wondered how she could believe in anything. 
But she told me that when she knew she had a voice and a 
gift for music, she used to pray that an angel might be sent to 
help her, — and when I asked her — ‘ Did the angel come ? ’ she 
said that God had sent me as the angel! Of course it wasn’t 
true, but it was very sweet of her to say it ! ” 

She paused. Walden was quite silent. Leaning his elbow 
on the raised head of her couch, he shaded his brow with one 
hand, thus partially covering his eyes from the glow of the 
fire. There were tears in those eyes, and he was afraid she 
Would see them. 


God’s Good Man 


495 


61 Cicely was always so brave and contented/’ — she presently 
continued — “ And as I learned to know more of her I began 
to wonder if really after all, her religion helped her? And 
then there came a time of great worry and trouble for me — 
and — I came home here to try and find peace and rest — and I 
met you!” 

He moved restlessly, but said nothing. 

“To meet you was an event in my life! ” she said, turning 
towards him a little, and laying her hand timidly on his coat 
sleeve — •“ It was really ! ” 

He looked at her, — and a wave of warmth passed over his 
face. 

“ Was it? ” he murmured. 

“ Of course it was ! ” she declared, — and almost she laughed 
— “You won’t understand me, I daresay! — but to meet you 
for the first time is a kind of event to most people! They 
begin to think about you, — they can’t help it ! You are so 
different from the ordinary sort of clergyman, — I don’t know 
how or why, — but you are ! ” 

He smiled a trifie sadly. 

“ Talk of yourself, not of me,” — he said, uneasily. 

“Yes, but I cannot very well talk of myself now without 
bringing you into it,” — she insisted, — “ And you must let me 
tell my story in my own way ! ” 

He shaded his eyes again from the firelight, and listened. 

“After I met you that morning,” she went on — “I heard 
many things about you in the village. Everyone seemed to 
love you! — yes, even the tiniest children! The poor people, 
the old and the sick, all seemed to trust you as their truest and 
best friend ! And when I knew all this I began to think very 
earnestly about the religious faith which seemed to make you 
what you are. I didn’t go to church to hear you preach — you 
know that! — I only went once — and I was late — you re- 
member? — So it has not been anything you have said in the 
pulpit that has changed me so much. It is just you , yourself ! 
It is because you live your life as you do that I want to learn 
to live the rest of mine just a little bit like it, even though I 
am crippled and more or less useless. You will teach me, 
won’t you ? I want to have your faith — your goodness ” 

He interrupted her. 

“Do not call me good ! ” he said, faintly — “ I cannot bear it 
—I cannot ! ” 

She looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes. 

“ I’m afraid you will have to bear it ! ” she said, softly— 


God’s Good Man 


496 


M For you are good! — you have always been good to me! And 
I do honestly believe that God means everything for the best 
as you say, because now I am a cripple, I have escaped once 
and for all from the marriage my aunt was trying to force me 
into with Lord Boxmouth. I thank God every minute of my 
life for that ! ” 

“ You never loved him ? ” 

John’s voice was very low and tremulous as he asked this 
question. 

“ Never ! ” she answered, in the same low tone. “ How 
could you think it?” 

“ I did not know — I was not quite sure ” he murmured. 

“No, I never loved him!” she said, earnestly — “I always 
feared and hated him! And he did not love me, — he only 
cared for the money my aunt would have left me had I 
married him. But I have always wanted to be loved for 
myself — and this has been my great trouble. If anyone had 
ever really cared for me, I think it would have made me good 
and wise and full of trust in God — I should have been a 
much better woman than I am — I am sure I should! People 
say that the love I want is only found in poems and story 
books, and that my fancies are quite ridiculous. Perhaps 
they are. But I can’t help it. I am just myself and no 
other ! ” She smiled a little — then went on — “ Lord Box- 
mouth has a great social position, — but, to my mind, he has 
degraded it. I could not have married a man for whom I 
had no respect. You see I can talk quite easily about all 
this because it is past. For of course now I am a cripple, 
the very idea of marriage for me is all over. And I am 
really very glad it is so. No one can spread calumnies about 
me, or compromise my name any more. And even the harm 
Lord Boxmouth meant to try and do to you, has been stopped. 
So this time God has answered my prayers.” 

John looked up suddenly. 

“Did you pray ?” he began in a choked voice — then 

checked himself, and said quickly — “Dear child, I do not 
think Lord Boxmouth could have ever done me any harm ! ” 

“ Ah, you don’t know him as I do ! ” and she sighed — “ He 
stops at nothing. He will employ any base tool, any mean 
spy, to gain his own immediate purposes. And — and — ” she 

hesitated — “you know I wrote to you about it he saw 

us in the picture gallery ” 

“Well!” said John, and his eyes kindled into a sudden 
light and fire — “ What if he did ? ” 


God’s Good Man 


497 


u You were telling me how much you disliked seeing women 
smoke ” — she faltered — “ And — and — you spoke of Psyche, — 
you remember ” 

“I remember!” And John grew bolder and more resolute 
in spirit as he saw the soft rose flush on her cheeks and 
listened to the dulcet tremor of her voice — “I shall never 
forget ! ” 

“ And he thought he thought ” here her words sank 

almost to a whisper “that I that you ” 

He turned suddenly and looked down upon her where she 
lay. Their eyes met, — and in that one glance, love flashed 
a whole unwritten history. Stooping over her, he caught 
her little hands in his own, and pressed them against his heart 
with strong and passionate tenderness. 

“If he thought I loved you,” — he said — “he was right! I 
loved you then — I love you now! — I shall love you for ever — 
till death, and beyond it! My darling, my darling! You 
know I love you ! ” 

A half sob, a little smile answered him, — and then soft, 
broken words. 

“Yes — I know! — I always knew!” 

He folded his arms about her, and drew her into an 
embrace from which he wildly thought not Death itself 
should tear her. 

“ And you care ? ” he whispered. 

“ I care so much that I care for nothing else ! ” she said — 
then, all suddenly she broke down and began to weep pitifully, 
clinging to him and murmuring the grief she had till now so 
bravely restrained — “ But it is all too late ! ” she sobbed — •“ Oh 
my dearest, you love me, — and I love you, — ah! — you will 
never know how much ! — but it is too late ! — I can be of no use 
to you ! — I can never be of use ! I shall only be a trouble to 
you, — a drag and a burden on your days! — oh John! — and a 
little while ago I might have been your joy instead of your 
sorrow ! ” 

He held her to him more closely. 

“ Hush, hush ! ” he said softly, soothing her as he would 
have soothed a child,— and with mingled tenderness and 
reverence, he kissed the sweet trembling lips, the wet eyes, the 
tear-stained cheeks — “ Hush, my little girl ! You are all my 
joy in this world — can you not feel that you are ? ” And he 
kissed her again and yet again. “ And I am so unworthy of 
you ! — so old and worn and altogether unpleasing to a r/oman 
— I am nothing! Yet you love me! How strange that 


498 


God’s Good Man 


seems! — how wonderful! — for I have done nothing to deserve 
your love. And had you been spared your health and strength, 
I should never have spoken — never ! I would not have clouded 
your sunny life with my selfish shadow. No ! I should have 
let you go on your way and have kept silence to the end! For 
in all your vital brightness and beauty I should never have 
dared to say I love you, Maryllia ! ” 

At this she checked her sobs, and looked up at him in 
vague amazement. 

" You would never have spoken?” 

"Never!” 

" You would have let me live on here, quite close to you, 
seeing you every day, perhaps, without a word of the love in 
your heart?” 

He kissed her, half-smiling. 

"I think I should!” 

"Then” — said Maryllia, with grave sweetness — "I know 
that God does mean everything for the best — and I thank 
Him for having made me a cripple! Because if my trouble 
has warmed your heart, — your cold, cold heart, John ! ” — and 
she smiled at him through her tears — " and has made you say 
you love me, then it is the most blessed and beautiful trouble 
I could possibly have, and has brought me the greatest happi- 
ness of my life ! I am glad of it and proud of it, — I glory in 
it! For I would rather know that you love me than be the 
straightest, brightest, loveliest woman in the world! I would 
rather be here in your arms — so — ” and she nestled close 
against him — " than have all the riches that were ever 
counted! — and — listen, John!” Here, with her clinging, 
caressing arms, she drew his head down close to her breast — 
" Even if I have to die and leave you soon, I shall know that 
all is right with my soul ! — yes, dear, dear J ohn ! — because you 
will have taken away all its faults and made it beautiful with 
your love! — and God will love it for love’s sake, almost as 
much as He must love you for your own, John ! ” 

There was only one way — there never has been more than 
one way — to answer such tender words, and John took that 
way by silencing the sweet lips that spoke them with a kiss in 
which the pent-up passion of his soul was concentrated. The 
shadows of the winter gloaming deepened; — the firelight died 
down to a mass of rosy embers; — and when Cicely softly 
opened the door an hour later, the room was almost dark. 
But the scent of violets was in the air — she heard soft whisper- 
ings, and saw that two human beings at least, out of all a 


God’s Good Man 


499 


seeking world, had found the secret of happiness. And she 
stole away unseen, smiling, yet with glad tears in her eyes, and 
a little unuttered song in her heart — 

“ If to love is the best of all things known. 

We have gain’d the best in the world, mine own! 

We have touch’d the summit of love — and live,— 

Aad God Himself has no more to give! ” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


ffiHE prime of youth is said to be the only time of life whe* 
A lovers are supposed by poets and romancists to walk ‘ on 
air/ so as John Walden was long past the age when men are 
called young, it is difficult to determine the kind of buoyant 
element on which he trod when he left the Manor that evening. 
Youth ! — what were its vague inchoate emotions, its trembling 
hesitations, its more or less selfish jealousies, doubts and de- 
sires, compared to the strong, glowing and tender passion 
which filled the heart of this man, so long a solitary in the 
world, who now awaking to the consciousness of love in its 
noblest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no 
longer alone! A life, — delicate and half broken by cruel 
destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage, — a soul, 
full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of 
Heaven! The glad blood quickened in his veins, — he was 
twice a man, — never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and 
withal so young. Like the Psalmist he could have said * My 
days are renewed upon the earth’ — and he devoutly thanked 
God for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above 
all others makes existence sweet. 

“My darling!” he murmured, as he walked joyously along 
the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the 
Manor and his own home — “ She shall never miss one joy 
that I can give her! How fortunate it is that I am tall 
and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her 
from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a 
little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, 
and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own 
bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her!'’ 
I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make 
the time pass sweetly, — she shall keep all her interests in 
the village — nothing shall be done without her consent — ah 
yes! — I know I shall be able to make her happier than she 
would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone! If she were 
strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her — but as 
it is — perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness 
be forgiven ! ” 


500 


God’s Good Man 


50i 


Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, 
pushed open the door of his study. There, somewhat to his 
surprise, he found Dr. ‘ Jimmy 9 Forsyth standing in a medi- 
tative attitude with his back to the fire. 

“Hullo, Walden!” he said — “Here you are at last! I’ve 
been waiting for you ever so long ! ” 

“Have you?” and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his 
hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead 
— “I’m sorry! Anything wrong?” 

Dr. ‘ Jimmy y shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Nothing particular. Oliver Leach is dead, — that’s all ! ” 

Walden started back. The smile passed from his face, for, 
remembering the scarcely veiled threats of his parishioners, 
he began to fear lest they should have taken some unlawful 
vengeance on the object of their hatred. 

“ Dead ! ” he echoed amazedly — “ Surely no one — no one has 
killed him?” 

“Not a bit of it!” said Forsyth, complacently — “It just 
happened ! ” 

“How?” 

“Well, it appears that the rascal has been lying low for 
a considerable time in the house of our reverend friend. Put- 
wood Leveson. That noble soul has been playing c sanctuary 9 
to him, and no doubt warned him of the very warm feeling 
with which the villagers of St. Pest regarded him. He has 
been maturing certain plans, and waiting till an opportunity 
should arise for him to get away to Piversford, where appar- 
ently he intended to take up his future abode, Mordaunt 
Appleby the brewer having offered him a situation as brewery 
accountant. The opportunity occurred last night, so I hear. 
He managed to get off with his luggage in a trap, and duly 
arrived at the Crown Inn. There he was set upon in the 
taproom by certain old friends and gambling associates, who 
accused him of wilfully attempting to injure Miss Vancourt. 
He denied it. Thereupon they challenged him to drink ten 
glasses of raw whiskey, one on top of another, to prove his 
innocence. It was a base and brutal business, but he accepted 
the challenge. At the eighth glass he fell down unconscious. 
His companions thought he was merely drunk — but — as it 
turned out — he was dead.” * 

♦This incident happened lately in a village in the south ol 
England. 


502 


God’s Good Man 


Walden heard in silence. 

“It’s horrible l” he said at last— “Yet— I cannot say I’m 
sorry! I suppose as a Christian minister I ought to be,— 
but I’m not! I only hope none of my people were concerned 
in the matter ? ” 

“You may be quite easy on that score,” — replied Forsyth — 
“ Of course there will be an inquest, and a severe, reproof 
will be administered to the men who challenged him,— -but 
there the affair will end. I really don’t think we need grieve 
ourselves unduly over the exit of one scoundrel from a world 
already overburdened with his species.” With that, he turned 
and poked the fire into a brighter blaze. “Let us talk of 
something else” — he said. “I called in to tell you that 
Santori is in London, and that I have taken the responsibility 
upon myself of sending for him to see Miss Vancourt.” 

Walden was instantly all earnest attention. 

“ Who is Santori ? ” he asked. 

“ Santori,” replied Forsyth, “ is a great Italian, whose 
scientific researches into medicine and surgery have won him 
the honour of all nations, save and except the British. We are 
very insular, my dear Walden! — we never will tolerate the 
*furriner’ even if he brings us health and healing in his 
Land! Santori is a medical ‘furriner/ therefore he is gen- 
erally despised by the English medical profession. But I’m 
a Scotsman — I’ve no prejudices except my own ! ” And he 
laughed — “ And I acknowledge Santori as one of the greatest 
men of the age. He is a scientist as well as a surgeon — and 
his great * speciality’ is the spine and nerves. Now I have 
never quite explained to you the nature of Miss Vancourt’s 
injuries, and there is no need even now to particularise them. 
The main point of her case is that in the condition she is 
now, she must remain a cripple for life, — and ” here he hesi- 
tated, — “ that life cannot, I fear, be a very long one.” 

Walden turned his head away for a moment. 

“ Go on ! ” he said huskily. 

“ At the same time,” continued Dr. Forsyth, gently — “ there 
are no bones broken, — all the mischief is centred in damage to 
the spine. I sent, as you know, for Wentworth Glynn, our 
best specialist in this country, and he assured me there was no 
hope whatever of any change for the better. Yesterday, I 
happened to see in the papers that Santori had arrived in 
London for a few weeks, and, acting on a sudden inspiration, 
I wrote him a letter at once, explaining the whole case, and 


God’s Good Man 503 

asking him to meet me in consultation. He has wired an 
answer to-day, saying he will be here to-morrow.” 

Walden’s eyes were full of sorrowful pain and yearning. 

“ Well! ” he said, with a slight sigh — “ And what then? ” 
“What then?” responded Dr. * Jimmy’ cheerfully — “Why 
nothing, — except that^t will be more satisfactory to everyone 
concerned, — and to me particularly — to have his opinion.” 

There was a pause. John gazed down into the fire as 
though he saw a whole world of mingled grief and joy re- 
flected in its crimson glow. Then, suddenly lifting his head, 
he looked his friend full in the face. 

“Forsyth,” — he said — “I think I ought to tell you — you 
ought to know 1 am going to marry her ! ” 

Without a word, 1 Jimmy ’ gripped his hand and pressed it 
hard. Then he turned very abruptly, and walked up and 
down the little room* And presently he drew out his glasses 
and polished them vigorously though they were in no need 
of this process. 

“ I thought you would ! ” he said, after a while — “ Of course 
I saw how the land lay! I knew you loved her ” 

“ I suppose that was easy to guess ! ” said J ohn, a warm 
flush of colour rising to his brows as he spoke — “But you 
could not have imagined for a moment that she would love 
me ! Yet she does ! That is the wonder of it ! I am such an 
old humdrum fellow — and she is so young and bright and 
pretty ! It seems so strange that she should care ! ” 

Dr. Forsyth looked at him with an appreciative twinkle in 
his eye. Then he laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder. 

“ You are a quaint creature, John! ” he said — “ Yet, do you 
know, I rather like your humdrum ways? I do, positively! 
And if I were a woman, I think I should esteem myself 
fortunate if I got you for a husband! I really should! You 
certainly don’t suffer from swelled head, John — that’s a great 
point in your favour ! ” 

He laughed, — and John laughed with him. Then, drawing 
their chairs to opposite sides of the fire, they talked for an 
hour or more on the subject that was most interesting to them 
both. John was for marrying Maryllia as soon as possible — • 
“in order that I may have the right to watch over her,” he 
urged, and Forsyth agreed. 

“ But wait till Santori has seen her, and given his opinion,” 
— he said — “If he comes, as his telegram says he will to- 
morrow, we can take him entirely into our confidence, and 
decide what is best for her peace and pleasure. The ceremony 


5°4 


God’s Good Man 


of marriage can be gone through privately at the Manor, — by 
the way, why don’t you ask your friend the Bishop to officiate ? 
I suppose he knows the position ? ” 

“He knows much, but not all,” — said John — “I wrote to 
him about the accident of course — and have written to him 
frequently since, but I did not think I should ever have such 
news to tell him as I have now ! ” His eyes darkened with 
deep feeling. “He has had his own tragedy — he will under- 
stand mine ! ” 

A silence fell between them, — and soon after, Forsyth took 
his leave. Walden, left alone, and deeply conscious of the 
new responsibility he had taken upon his life, set to work to 
get through his parish business for the evening, in order to 
have time to devote to Maryllia the next day, and, writing a 
long letter to Bishop Brent, he told him all the history of his 
late-found happiness, — his hopes, his sorrows, his fears — and 
his intention to show .what a man’s true love could be to a 
woman whom unkind destiny had deprived of all the natural 
joys of living. He added to this letter a few words referring 
to Forsyth’s information respecting the Italian specialist, 
Santori, who had been sent for to see Maryllia and pronounce 
on her condition — “ but I fear,” he wrote, “ that there is noth- 
ing to be done, save to resign ourselves to the apparently cruel 
and incomprehensible will of God, which in this case has 
declared itself in favour of allowing the innocent to suffer.” 

Next morning he awoke to find the sun shining brightly 
from a sky almost clear blue, save for a few scattered grey 
fleecy clouds, — and, stepping out into his garden, the first 
thing he noticed was a root of primroses breaking shyly into 
flower. Seeing Bainton trimming the shrubbery close by, he 
called his attention to it. 

“ Spring is evidently on the way, Bainton ! ” he said cheer- 
ily, “ We are getting past the white into the gold again ! ” 

“Ay, Passon, that we be!” rejoined Bainton, with a smile 
■ — “ An’ please the Lord, we’ll soon get from the gold into the 
blue, an’ from the blue into the rose! For that’s alius the way 
o’ the year, — first little white shaky blossoms wot’s a bit afraid 
of theirselves, lest the frost should nip ’em, — and then the 
deep an’ the pale an’ the bright gold blossoms, which just 
laughs at dull weather — an’ then the blue o’ the forget-me- 
nots an’ wood-bells, — an’ the red o’ the roses to crown all. An’ 
mebbe,” he continued, with a shrewd upward glance at his 
master’ s face — “ when the roses come, there’ll be a bit of 
orange-blossom to keep ’em company ” 


God’s Good Man 505 

John started, — and then his kind smile, so warm and sunny 
and sweet, shone like a beam of light itself across his 
features. 

“What, Bainton 1 ” he said— “So you know all about it 
already ! ” 

1 Bainton began to chuckle irrepressibly. 

“Well, if the village ain’t a liar from its one end to its 
t’otherest, then I knows ! ” he declared triumphantly — “ Lord 
love ye, Passon, you don’t s’pose ye can keep any secrets in 
this ’ere parish? They knows all about ye ’fore ye knows 
yerself I — an’ Missis Spruce she came down from the Manor 
last night in such a state 0’ fluster as never was, an’ she sez, all 
ehakin’ like an’ smilin’ — ‘ Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to be married,’ 
sez she, an’ we up an’ sez to ’er — 1 What, is the Dook goin’ to 
^ave her just the same though she can’t walk no more?’ an’ 
she sez: ‘Dook, not a bit of it! There’s a better man than 
any Dook close by an’ it’s ’im she’s goin’ to ’ave an’ nobody 
else, an’ it’s Passon Walden,’ sez she, an’ with that we all gives 
a big shout, an’ she busts out cryin’ an’ laughin’ together, an’ 
we all doos the same like the nesh fools we are when a bit o’ 

news pleases us like, — an’ — an’ ” Here Bainton’s voice 

grew rather husky and tremulous as he proceeded — “so of 
course the news went right through the village two minutes 
arterwards. An’ it’s all we could do to keep from cornin’ up 
outside ’ere an’ givin’ ye a rousin’ cheer ’fore goin’ to bed, 
onny Mr. Netlips ’e said it wouldn’t be ‘ commensurate,’ wot- 
ever that is, so we just left it. Howsomever, I made up my 
mind I’d be the first to wish ye joy, Passon! — an’ I wish it 
true ! ” 

Silently Walden held out his hand. Bainton grasped it 
with affectionate respect in his own horny palm. 

“ Not that I’d ’ave ever thought you’d a’ bin a marryin’ 
man, Passon ! ” he averred, his shrewd eyes lighting up with 
the kindliest humour — “But it’s never too late to mend!” 

, Walden laughed. 

’ “ That’s true, Bainton ! It’s never too late to repent of 
one’s follies and begin to be wise! Thank you for all your 
good wishes — they come from the heart, I know ! But ” — and 
his smile softened into an earnest gravity of expression — 
“they must be for her — for Miss Maryllia — not for me! I 
am already happier than I deserve — but she needs everyone’s 
good thoughts and prayers to help her to bear her enforced 
helplessness — she is very brave — yet — it is hard ” 

He broke off, not trusting himself to say more. 


God’s Good Man 


506 

“ It’s hard — it’s powerful hard ! ” agreed Bainton, sympa- 
thetically — “Such a wife as she’d a’ made t’ye, Passon, if 
she’d been as she was when she come in smilin’ an’ trippin’ 
across this lawn by your side, an’ ye broke off a bit o’ your 
best lilac for her! There’s the very bush — all leafless twigs 
now, but strong an’ ’elthy an’ ready to bloom again! Ah! I 
remember that day well! — ’twas the same day as ye sat under 
the apple tree arter she was gone an’ fastened a threepenny 
bit with a ’ole in it to ye’re watch chain! I seed it! An’ I 
was fair mazed over that ’oley bit, — but I found out all about 
it ! — hor-hor-hor ! ” and Bainton began to laugh with exceed- 
ing delight at his own perspicuity — “ A few minutes’ gossip 
with old Missis Tapple at the post-office did it! — hor-hor-hor! 
for she told me, bless ’er heart! — as ’ow Miss Vancourt ’ad 
given it t’ye for fun, as a sort 0’ reward like for sendin’ off 
some telegrams for ’er! Hor-hor! There’s naught like a 
village for findin’ out everybody’s little secrets, an’ our vil- 
lage beats every other one I ever heard tell on at that kind o’ 
work, it do reely now ! I say, Passon, when they was spreadin’ 
all the stories round about you an’ Miss Vancourt, I could a’ 
told a tale about the ’oley bit, couldn’t I ? ” 

“You could indeed!” laughed John, good-naturedly — “and 
yet — I suppose you didn’t!” 

“Notl}” said Bainton, stoutly — “I do talk a bit, but I 
ain’t Missis Spruce, nor I ain’t turned into a telephone tube 
yet. Mebbe I will when Pm a bit older. ’Ave ye heard, 
Passon, as ’ow Oliver Leach is dead ? ” 

“ Yes, — Dr. Forsyth told me last night.” 

“Now d’ye think a man like ’im is gone to Heaven!” de- 
manded Bainton — “Honest an’ true, d’ye think the Lord 
Almighty wants ’im?” 

John was rather non-plussed. His garrulous gardener 
watched his face with attentive interest. 

“Don’t ye answer unless ye like, Passon!” he observed, 
sagaciously — “ I don’t want to make ye say things which ain’t 
orthodox ! You keep a still tongue, an’ I shall understand ! ” 

John took the hint. He ‘kept a still tongue’ — and turned 
back from the garden into the house. Bainton chuckled 
softly. 

“Passon can’t lie! ” he said to himself — “He couldn’t do it 
to save his life! That’s just the best of ’im! Now if he’d 
begun tellin’ me that he was sure that blackhearted rascal ’ad 
gone to keep company with the angels I’d a nigh despised ’im! 

« — I would reely now ! ” 


God’s Good Man 


507 


That same morning, when John walked up to the Manor 
again, he entered it as a privileged person, invested with new 
authority. Cicely ran to meet him, and frankly put up her 
face to be kissed. 

“ A thousand and one congratulations ! ” she said — “ I knew 
this would come! — I was sure of it! But the credit of the 
first guess is due to the Mooncalf, — Julian, you know! — he’s 
a poet, and he made up a whole romance about you and 
Maryllia the first day he ever saw you with her ! ” 

“Did he?” — and Walden smiled — “Well, he was right! 
I am very happy. Cicely ! ” 

“ So am I ! ” And the ‘ Goblin ’ clasped her hands affec- 
tionately across his arm — •“ You are just the very man I should 
have chosen for Maryllia! — the only man, in fact — I’ve never 
met anybody else worthy of her! But oh, if she were only 
strong and well! Do you know that Dr. Forsyth is bringing 
another specialist to see her this afternoon ? ” 

“Yes, I know!” 

“And there’s other news for you this morning” — pursued 
Cicely, a broad smile lighting up her face and eyes — “Very 
amusing news! Lord Koxmouth is married!” 

“Married!” exclaimed Walden, incredulously — “Not pos- 
sible!” 

“ Come and see the wedding cards ! ” — and Cicely, laughing 
outright, caught his hand, and pulled him along into the 
morning room, where Maryllia, with her couch turned so that 
she could see the first glimpse of her lover as he entered the 
doorway, was eagerly awaiting his approach — “ Maryllia, 
here’s John! Prove to him at once please that Mrs. Fred’s 
millions are lost to you forever ! ” 

Maryllia laughed, and blushed sweetly too, as John bent 
over her and kissed her with a very expressive look of tender- 
ness, not to say proprietorship. 

“It’s true, John! ’’ she said — “Lord Koxmouth has married 
Aunt Emily!” 

John’s blue eyes lighted with sudden laughter. 

“ Well done ! ” he exclaimed, gaily — “ Anything for the 
millions, evidently! What a comfort to think he has secured 
them at last! And so you have become the niece instead of 
the wife of the future duke, my Maryllia! When and where 
were they married ? ” 

“ Last week at the Embassy in Paris. Cicely wrote to Aunt 
Emily at New Year, telling her that though I was much 
better, the doctors had said I should be a cripple for life. 


God’s Good Man 


508 

Well, we never had any answer at all to that letter, — not a 
word of regret, or affection or sympathy. Then, — this morn- 
ing — behold ! — the Roxmouth wedding cards ! ” 

She took a silver-bordered envelope lying on a little table 
close beside her, and drawing out from it the cards in question, 
held them up to his view. Walden glanced at them with a 
touch of contempt. 

“ Shall I wire our united heartiest congratulations ? ” he 
queried, smiling — “ And add that we are engaged to be mar- 
ried V 9 

“ Do ! ” said Maryllia, clasping his hand in her own and 
kissing it — “ Go and send the wire off through dear old Mrs. 
Tapple! And then all the village will know how happy I 
am! ” 

“How happy we are,” — corrected John — “I think they 
know that already, Maryllia! But it shall be well impressed 
upon them ! 99 

Later on, when he was in the village, making his usual 
round of visits among the sick and poor, and receiving the 
affectionate good wishes of many who had heard the news 
of his betrothal, he saw Dr. Forsyth driving up to the Manor 
in his gig with another man beside him, who, as he rightly 
guessed, was no other than the celebrated Italian specialist, 
Santori. Forsyth had promised to come and tell him the 
result of the consultation as soon as he knew it himself, and 
Walden waited for him hour after hour with increasing im- 
patience. At last he appeared, — pale, and evidently under the 
influence of some strongly suppressed excitement. 

“Walden,” — he said, without preface or hesitation — “are 
you prepared to face a great crisis ? ” 

Walden’s heart almost stood still. Had anything happened 
to Maryllia in the short space of time which had elapsed since 
he saw her last? 

“ What do you mean ? ” he faltered — “ I could not bear to 
lose her now ” 

“ You must lose her in a year at the utmost, if you do not 
run the risk of losing her to save her now,” — said Forsyth, 
bluntly — “Santori has seen her — and — keep cool, John! — he 
says there is just one chance of restoring her to her former 
health and activity again, but it is a chance fraught with 
imminent danger to her life. He will not risk it without her 
full consent,— -and (knowing you are her betrothed husband) 
— yours. It is a very serious and difficult operation, — she may 
live through it, and she may not.” 


God’s Good Man 


509 

“I will not have it I ” said Walden, quickly, almost fiercely. 
“ She shall not be touched ” 

“Wait!” continued Forsyth, regarding him steadily — “In 
her present condition, she will die in a year. She must. 
There is no help for it. If Santori operates — and he is quite 
willing to undertake it — she may live, — and not only may 
she live, but she may be absolutely strong and well again, — 
able to walk and ride, and enjoy her life to the full. It rests 
with her and with you to decide, — yes or no ! ” 

Walden was silent. 

“I may as well tell you,” — went on Forsyth — “that she-^ 
Miss Vancourt herself, — is ready to risk it. Santori has gone 
back to London to-night, — but if we agree to place her under 
his hands he will come and perform the operation next week.” 

“Next week!” murmured Walden, faintly — “Must it be 
so soon ? ” 

“ The sooner the better,” — said Forsyth, quietly, yet firmly, 
“Come, John, face this thing out! I am thinking of the 
chance of her happiness as well as yours. Is it worth while 
to sacrifice the whole of a young life’s possible activity for 
the sake of one year’s certainty of helplessness with death 
at the end? Wrestle the facts out with yourself; — go and 
see her to-night. And after you have talked it over together, 
let me know.” 

He went out then, and left Walden alone to face this new 
dark cloud of anxiety and suspense that seemed to loom over 
a sky which he imagined had just cleared. But when he saw 
Maryllia that evening, her face reflected nothing but sun- 
shine, and her eyes were radiant with hope. 

“I must take this chance, John!” she said — “Do not 
withhold your consent! Think what it means to us both if 
this great surgeon is able to set me on my feet again!-- 
and he is so kind and gentle! — he says he has every hope 
of success! What happiness it will be for me if I can be all 
in all to you, John! — a real true wife, instead of a poor 
helpless invalid dependent on your daily care!— oh John, let 
me show you how much I love you by facing this ordeal, and 
trying to save my life for your sake ! ” 

He drew her into his arms, and folded her close to his 
heart. 

“ My child — my darling! If you wish it, it shall be done! ” 
he murmured brokenly — “And may God in His great mercy 
be good to us both ! But if you die, my Maryllia, I shall die 
too — so we shall still be together!” 


God’s Good Man 


510 

So it was settled; and Dr. Forsyth, vacillating uneasily 
between hope and fear, communicated the decision at once to 
the famous Italian surgeon, who, without any delay or hesita- 
tion responded by promptly fixing a day in the ensuing week 
for his performance of the critical task which was either to 
kill or cure a woman who to one man was the dearest of all 
earth’s creatures. And with such dreadful rapidity did the 
hours fly towards that day that Walden experienced, in him- 
self all the trembling horrors of a condemned, criminal who 
knows that his execution is fixed for a certain moment to 
which Time itself seems racing like a relentless bloodhound, 
sure of its quarry. Writing to Bishop Brent he told him all, 
and thus concluded his letter: — 

“ If I lose her now — now, after the joy of knowing that she 
loves me — I shall kneel before you broken-hearted and implore 
your forgiveness for ever having called you selfish in the 
extremity of your grief and despair for the loss of love. Bor 
I am myself utterly selfish to the heart’s core, and though 
I say every night in my prayers i Thy Will be done/ I know 
that if she is taken from me I shall rebel against that Will! 
■For I am only human, — and make no pretence to be more 
than a man who loves greatly.” 

During this interval of suspense Cicely and Julian were 
thrown much together. Every moment that Walden could 
spare from his parish work, he passed by the side of his 
beloved, knowing that his presence made her happy, and 
fearing that these days might be his last with her on earth. 
Maryllia herself however seemed to have no such forebodings. 
She was wonderfully bright and cheerful, and though her body 
was so helpless her face was radiant with such perfect happi- 
ness that it looked as fair as that of any pictured angel. 
Cicely, recognising the nature of the ordeal through which 
these two lovers were passing, left them as much by them- 
selves as possible, and laid upon Julian the burden of her own 
particular terrors which she was at no pains to conceal. And 
unfortunately Julian did not, under the immediate circum- 
stances, prove a very cheery comforter. 

“ I hate the knife ! ” he said, gloomily — “ Everyone is cut 
tip or slashed about in these days — there’s too much of it 
altogether. If ever a fruit pip goes the way it should not go 
into my interior mechanism, I hope it may be left there to 
sprout up into a tree if it likes — I don’t mind, so long as I’m 
not sliced up for appendicitis or pipcitis or whatever it is.” 

"I wonder what pur great-grandparents used to do when 


God’s Good Man 51 1 

lEey were ill? ’’queried Cicely, with a melancholy 8tare in her 
big, pitiful dark eyes. 

“ They let blood,” — replied Julian — “ They used to go to 
the barber’s and get a vein cut at the same time as their hair. 
Of course it was all wrong. We all know now that it was very 
wrong. In another hundred years or so we shall find out that 
twentieth-century surgery was just as wrong.” 

Cicely clasped her hands nervously. 

^ “ Oh, don’ you think Maryllia will come through the opera- 
tion all right?” she implored, for about the hundredth time 
in the course of two days. 

Julian looked away from her. 

“I don’t know — and I don’t like to express any opinion 
about it,” — he answered, with careful gentleness — “ But there 
is danger — and — if the worst should happen ” 

“It won’t happen! It shan’t happen!” cried Cicely pas- 
sionately. 

“ Dear little singing Goblin, I wish you could control fate! ” 
And, taking her hand, he patted it affectionately. “Every- 
thing would be all right for everybody if you could make it 
eo, I’m sure! — even for me! Wouldn’t it?” 

Cicely blushed suddenly. 

“I don’t know,” — she said — “I never think about you!” 

He smiled. 

“Don’t you? Well, — perhaps some day you will! When 
you are a great prima donna, you will read the poems and 
verses I shall write about you in all the newspapers and maga- 
zines, and you will say as you take kings’ and emperors’ 
diamonds out of your hair: ‘Who is this fellow? Ah yes! 
I remember him ! He was a chum of mine down in the little 
village of St. Best. I called him Mooncalf, and he called me 
Goblin. And — he was very fond of me ! ’ ” 

She laughed a littlS, and drew away her hand from his. 

“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said — “Think of Maryllia — 
and of Mr. Walden!” 

“I do think of them, — I think of them all the time!” 
declared Julian earnestly — “ And that is why I am so uneasy. 
For — if the worst should happen, it will break Walden’s 
heart.” 

Cicely’s eyes filled with tears. She hurried away from him 
without another word or glance. 

The fateful morning dawned. Walden had parted from 
Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would 


512 


God’s Good Man 


see her again before she passed into the surgeon’s hands,—* 
but Forsyth would not permit this. 

“ She does not wish it, John,” — he said — “ And she has 
asked me to tell you so. Stay away from the Manor — keep 
quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your 
usual round of work. It will be best for her and for you. I 
will let you know directly the operation is over. Santori is 
already here. Now” — and he gave Walden’s hand a close and 
friendly grip — “steady, John! Say your prayers if you like, 
— we want all the help God can give us ! ” 

The door opened and closed again — he was gone. A great 
silence, — a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Wal- 
den’s heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared 
before him with unseeing eyes, — mechanically patting his dog 
Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts 
to clamber on his knee. 

“ My God, my God ! ” he muttered — “ What shall I do 
without her ! ” 

Someone opened the door again just then. He started, 
thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him some- 
thing he had forgotten. But the tall attenuated form that 
confronted him was not that of Forsyth. A look of amazed 
recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes. 

“ Brent ! ” he cried, — and he caught at the pale hands ex- 
tended to him, — hands like those of a saint whose flesh is 
worn by fasting and prayer; — then, with something of a sob, 

exclaimed again — “ Harry ! How why did you come ? ” 

Brent’s eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tender- 
ness in their dark and melancholy depths. 

“ I have come,” — he said, — and his musical voice, grave and 
sweet, trembled with deep feeling — “because I think this is 

your dark hour, John! — and because perhaps you may 

need me ! ” * 

And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken 
beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly 
fell on his knees. 

“ Help me ! ” he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling 
in his throat — “You are right — I need you! Help me to be 

strong you are nearer God than I am ! Pray for me ! ” 

Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered 
clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed 
head. His lips moved, but he uttered no words. There was 
a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock 
in the outer hall. 


God’s Good Man 


5i3 


Presently, rising in obedience to bis friend’s persuasive 
touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to 
master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his 
efforts. 

“ Brent,” — he began, huskily ■“ I am ashamed that you 

should see me like this so weak ” 

“ A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John! ” 
and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own — 
“ Come into the church with me, will you ? I feel the in- 
fluence of your enshrined Saint upon me! Let us wait for 
news, good or bad, at the altar, — and while waiting, we will 
pray. Do you remember what I said to you when you came 
to see me last summer ? ‘ Some day, when we are in very 

desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us 9 ? 
Come!” 

Without a word of demur, John obeyed. They passed out 
of the house together and took the private by-path to the 
church. It was then about noon, and the sun shone through 
a soft mist that threatened rain without permitting it to 
fall. The faint piping of a thrush in the near distance sug- 
gested the music of the coming Spring, and the delicate 
odour of plant-life pushing its way through the earth gave a 
pungent freshness to the quiet air. Arriving at the beautiful 
little sanctuary, they entered it by the vestry, though the 
public door stood open according to invariable custom. A 
singularly brilliant glare of luminance reflected from the 
plain clear glass that filled the apertures of the rose-window 
above the altar, struck aslant on the old-world sarcophagus 
which doubtless contained the remains of one who, all 
‘miraculous’ attributes apart, had nobly lived and bravely 
died, — and as the Bishop moved reverently round it to the 
front of the altar-rails, his eyes were uplifted and full of 
spiritual rapture. 0 

“ Kneel here with me, John ! ” he said — “ And with all our 
hearts and all our minds, let us pray to God for the life of 
the beloved woman -whom God has given you, — given, surely, 
not to take away again, but to be more completely made your 
own! Let us pray, as the faithful servants of Christ prayed 
in the early days of the Church, — not hesitatingly, not doubt- 
ingly, not fearingly ! — but believing and making sure that our 
prayers will, if good for us, be granted ! ” 

They knelt together. Walden, folding his arms on the 
altar-rails, hid his face, — but the Bishop, clasping his hands 
and fixing his eyes on the word ‘ Besurget ’ that flashed out 


5i4 


God’s Good Man 


of the worn alabaster wherein the unknown i Saint ’ reposed, 
seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured 
through the window above him, and to exhale from his own 
slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory 
pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist. 

The minutes slowly ebbed away. The church clock chimed 
the half-hour after noon — and they remained absorbed in a 
trance of speechless, passionate prayer. They were unaware 
that some of Walden’s parishioners, moved by the same idea 
of praying for Maryllia while she was undergoing the opera- 
tion which was to save or slay, had come to the church also 
for that purpose, but were brought to a pause on the threshold 
of the building by the sight they saw within. That their 
own beloved ‘Passon’ should be kneeling at the altar in the 
agony of his own heart’s Gethsemane was too much for their 
simple and affectionate souls, — and they withdrew in haste 
and silence, many of them with tears in their eyes. They 
were considerably awed too by the discovery that no less a 
personage than the Bishop of the diocese himself was com- 
panioning Walden in his trouble,— and, moving away in little 
groups of twos and threes, they stood about here and there 
in the churchyard, waiting for they knew not what, and all 
affected by the same thrill of mingled suspense, hope and 
fear. Among them was Bainton, who, when he had peered 
into the white silence of the church and had seen for himself 
that it was indeed his master who was praying there beside 
his Bishop, made no pretence to hide his emotion. 

“We be all fools together,” — he said to Adam Frost in 
hoarse accents, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand — 
“We ain’t no stronger nor wiser than a lot o’ chitterin’ spar- 
rows on a housetop! Old Josey, he be too weak an’ ailin’ to 
get out in this kind o’ weather, but he sez he’s prayin’ ’ard, 
which I truly believe he is, though he ain’t in church. All 
the village is on its knees this marnin’ I reckon, whether it’s 
workin’ in fields or gardens, or barns or orchards, an’ if the 
Lord A’mighty don’t take no notice of us. He must be power- 
ful ’ard of ’earin’ ! ” 

# Adam Frost coughed warningly,— jerked his thumb in the 
direction of the church, and was silent. 

Suddenly a lark sang. Rising from the thick moss and 
grass which quilted over the grave of ‘th’ owld Squire/ 
Maryllia’s father, the bird soared hoveringly aloft into the 
sun-warmed February air,— and by one common impulse the 
villagers looked up, watching the quivering of its wings. 


God’s Good Man 


515 


a Bless us 1 That’s the first skylark of the year ! ” said Mrs. 
Frost, who, holding her blue-eyed ‘ Baby Hippolyta,’ otherwise 
Ipsie, by the hand, stood near the church porch — “ Ain’t it 
singin’ sweet ? ” 

“ Fine ! ” murmured one or two of her gossips near her, — 
“ Seems a good sign o’ smilin’ weather ! ” 

There was a silence then among the merely human com- 
pany, while the bird of heaven sang on more and more exult- 
ingly, and soared higher and higher into the misty grey-blue 
of the sky. 

All at once the clock struck with a sharp clang ‘one.’ In- 
side the church, its deep reverbation startled the watchers 
from their prayers with an abrupt shock — and Walden lifted 
his head from his folded arms, showing in the bright shaft of 
strong sunshine that now bathed him in its radiance, his sad 
eyes, heavy and swollen with restrained tears. Suddenly there 
was a murmur of voices outside, — a smothered cry, — and 
then a little flying figure, breathless, hatless, with wild spark- 
ling eyes and dark hair streaming loose in the wind, rushed 
into the church. It was Cicely. 

“ It’s all over ! ” she cried. 

Walden sprang up, sick and dizzy. Bishop Brent rose from 
his knees slowly, his delicate right hand clutching nervously 
at the altar rail. Like men in a dream, they heard and gazed, 
stricken by a mutual horror too paralysing for speech. 

“ All over! ” — muttered John, feebly — “ My God! — my God! 
All over ! ” 

Cicely sprang to him and caught his arm. 

“ Yes ! — Don’t you understand ? ” and her voice shook with 
excitement — “ All over ! She is safe ! — quite safe ! — she will 
be well! — Mr. Walden! — John! — don’t look at me like that! 
oh dear ! ” and she turned a piteous glance on Bishop Brent 

who was, to her, a complete stranger “ He doesn’t seem to 

hear me — please speak to him! — do make him understand! 
Everything has been done successfully — and Maryllia will live 
— she will be her own dear bright 9elf again! As soon as I 
heard the good news, I raced down here to tell you and 
everybody ! — oh John ! — poor J ohn ! ” 

For, with a great sigh and a sudden stretching upward of 
his arms as though he sought to reach all Heaven with his 
soul’s full measure of gratitude, John staggered blindly a few 
steps from the altar of the Saint’s Rest and fell, — senseless. 
********* 


God’s Good Man 


5i6 

Again the merry month of May came in rejoicing. Again 
the May-pole glorious with blossoms and ribbons, made its 
nodding royal progress through the village of St. Rest, escorted 
by well-nigh a hundred children, who, with laughter and song 
carried it triumphantly up to Abbot’s Manor, and danced 
round it in a ring on the broad grassy terrace facing the open 
windows of Maryllia’s favourite morning room, where Maryl- 
lia herself, sweet and fair as a very queen of spring, stood 
watching them, with John Walden at her side. Again their 
fresh young voices, gay with the musical hilarity of happiness, 
carolled the Mayer’s song : — 

“We have been rambling all this night, 

And almost all this day; 

And now returning back again. 

We bring you in the May! 

A branch of May we have brought you, 

And at your door it stands, 

’Tis but a sprout. 

But ’tis budded out, 

By the work of our Lord’s hands. 

The heavenly gates are open wide, 

Our paths are beaten plain ; 

And if a man be not too far gone. 

He may return again! ” 

“ That’s true!” said John, slipping an arm round his be- 
loved, and whispering his words in the little delicate ear 
half-hidden by the clustering gold-brown curls above it — 
“ If a man be not too far gone as a bachelor, he may perhaps 
‘ return again ’ as a tolerable husband ? What do you think, 
my Maryllia ? ” 

Her eyes sparkled with all their own mirth and mischief. 

“I couldn’t possibly say— -yet!” she said— “You are quite 
perfect as an engaged man, — I never heard of anybody quite 
so attentive — so — well ! — so nicely behaved ! ” and she laughed, 
“ But how you will turn out when you are married, I shouldn’t 
like to prophesy ! ” 

“ If the children weren’t looking at us, I should kiss you,” 
he observed, with a suggestive glance at her smiling lips. 

“I’m sure you would!” she rejoined— “ For an ‘old’ 
bachelor, John, you are quite an adept at that kind of 
thing ! ” 


God’s Good Man 


517 


Here the little village dancers slackened the speed of their 
tripping measure and moved slowly round and round, allowing 
the garlands and ribbons to drop from their hands one by one 
against the May-pole, as they sang in softer tones — 

“The moon shines bright, and the stars give light, 

A little before it is day, 

So God bless you all, both great and small, 

And send you a merrie May! ” 

Ceasing at this, they all gathered in one group and burst 
Out into an ecstatic roar. 

“ Hurra! Three cheers for Passon!” 

“ Hurra ! Hurra I Hurra ! ” 

u Three cheers for Miss Vancourt! ” 

“ Hurra!” But here there was a pause. Some one was 
obstructing the wave of enthusiasm. Signs of mixed scuffling 
were apparent, — when all suddenly the bold voice of Bob 
Keeley cried out: 

“ Not a bit of it! Three cheers for Missis Passon!” 

Shouts of laughter followed this irreverent proposal, to- 
gether with much whooping and cheering as never was. Ipsie 
Frost, who of course was present, no village revel being con- 
sidered complete without her, was dancing recklessly all by 
herself on the grass, chirping in her baby voice a ballad of 
her own contriving which ran thus: 

“ Daisies white, violets blue, 

Cowslips yellow, — and 
I loves ’ 00! 

Little bird’s nest 
Up in a tree, 

Spring’s cornin’, — and 

’Oo loves we! ” 

An d it was after Ipsie that Maryllia ran, to cover her smiles 
and blushes as the echo of the children’s mirth pealed through 
the garden, — and with the pretty blue-eyed little creature 
clinging to her hand, she came back again sedately, with all 
her own winsome and fairy-like stateliness to thank them for 
their good wishes. 

“They mean it so well, John!” she said afterwards, when 
the youngsters, still laughing and cheering, had gone away 
with their crowned symbol of the dawning spring— “ and they 


God’s Good Man 


518 

love you so much! I never knew of any man that was loved 
so much by so many people in one little place as you are, 
J ohn ! And to be loved by all the children is a great thing • 
I think — of course I cannot be quite sure — but I think it is 
an exceptional thing — for a clergyman ! ” 

******* 

***** 

* * * 

* 

With rose-crowned June, the rose-window in the church of 
St. Best was filled in and completed. Maryllia had found all 
the remaining ancient stained glass that had been needed 
to give the finishing touch to its beauty, and the loveliest 
deep gem-like hues shone through the carven apertures like 
rare jewels in a perfect setting. The rays of light filtering 
through them were wonderful and mystical, — such as might 
fall from the pausing wings of some great ministering angel, 
— and under the blaze of splendid colour, the white sar- 
cophagus with its unknown 1 Saint ’ asleep, lay steeped in soft 
folds of crimson and azure, gold and amethyst, while even 
the hollow notches in the sculptured word * Kesurget ’ seemed 
filled with delicate tints like those painted by old-world monks 
on treasured missals. And presently one morning came, — 
warm with the breath of summer, sunny and beautiful, — when 
the window was solemnly re-consecrated by Bishop Brent at ten 
o’clock, — a consecration followed by the loud and joyous ring- 
ing of the bells, and a further sacred ceremony, — the solemnisa- 
tion of matrimony between John Walden and Maryllia Van- 
court. All the village swarmed out like a hive of bees from 
their honey-cells to see their 1 Passon 9 married. Hundreds of 
honest and affectionate eyes looked love on the bride, as clad 
in the simplest of simple white gowns, with a plain white veil 
draping her from head to foot, she came walking to the church 
across the warm clover-scented fields, like any village maid, 
straight from the Manor, escorted only by Cicely, her one 
bridesmaid. At the churchyard gate, she was met by all the 
youngest girls of the school, arrayed in white, who, carrying 
rush baskets full of wild flowers, scattered them before her as 
she moved, — and when she arrived at the church porch, she 
was followed by the little child Ipsie, whose round fair cherub- 
like face reflected one broad smile of delight, and who carried 
between her two tiny hands a basket full to overflowing of old 
French damask roses, red as the wine-glow of a summer sun- 
set. The church was crowded, — not only by villagers but by 


God’s Good Man 


519 

County folks, — for everyone from near or far that could be 
present at what they judged to be a ‘ strange ’ wedding — 
namely a wedding for love and love alone — had mustered in 
force for the occasion. One or two had stayed away from 
a certain sense of discrepancy in themselves, to which it is 
needless to refer. Sir Morton Pippitt was among these. He 
felt, — but what he felt is quite immaterial. And so far as his 
daughter was concerned, she, as Bainton expressed it, had 
‘ gone a’ visitin’/ The Ittlethwaites, of Ittlethwaite Park, in 
all the glory of their Magnum Chartus forebears were pres- 
ent, as were the Mandeville-Porehams while to Julian 

Adderley was given the honour of being Walden’s c best man.’ 
He, as the music of the wedding voluntary poured from the 
organ through the flower-scented air, wondered doubtfully 
whether poetic inspiration would ever assist him in such wise 
as to enable him to express in language the exquisite sweet- 
ness of Maryllia’s face, as, standing beside the man whose 
tender and loyal love she was surer of than any other posses- 
sion in this world she repeated in soft accents the vow: “to 
have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, 
for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, 
cherish, and to obey till death do us part ! ” 

And when Bishop Brent placed her little hand in that of 
his old college friend, and pressed them tenderly together, ho 
felt, looking at the heavenly light that beamed from her sweet 
eyes, that not even death itself could part her fond soul from 
that of the man whom she loved, and who loved her so purely 
and faithfully in God’s sight. Thus, when pronouncing the 
words — “ Those whom God hath joined together, let no man 
put asunder ! ” he was deeply conscious that for once at least 
in the troublous and uncertain ways of the modern world, the 
holy bond of wedlock was approved of in such wise as to be 
final and eternal. 

Away in London, on this same marriage day. Lady Rox- 
mouth, formerly Mrs. Fred Yancourt, sat at luncheon in her 
sumptuously furnished house in Park Lane, and looked across 
the table at her husband, while he lazily sipped a glass of 
wine. 

“That ridiculous girl Maryllia has married her parson by 
this time I suppose,” — she said — “ Of course it’s perfectly 
scandalous. Lady Beaulyon was quite disgusted when she 
heard of it — such an alliance for a Yancourt! And Mr. and 
Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay tell me that the man Walden ivi quite 
an objectionable person — positively boorish! It’s dreadful 


520 


God’s Good Man 


really! But who could ever have imagined she would recover 
from that hunting spill? Wentworth Glynn said she was 
crippled for life. He told me so himself.” 

“ Well, he was wrong evidently,” — said Roxmouth, curtly. 
“ English surgeons are very clever, but they are not always 
infallible. This time an Italian has beaten them.” 

“ Perhaps she was not so seriously injured as the local man 
at St. Rest made her out to be,” — pursued her ladyship re- 
flectively. 

Roxmouth said nothing. She studied his face with amused 
scrutiny. 

“Perhaps it was another little ruse to get rid of you and 
your wooing,” — she went on — “Dear me! What an extraor- 
dinary contempt Maryllia always had for you to be sure ! ” 

He moved restlessly, and she smiled — a hard little smile. 

“ I guess you’re hankering after her still ! ” she hinted. 

“ Your remarks are in rather bad taste,” — he rejoined, 
coldly, helping himself to another glass of wine. 

She rose from her chair, and came round the table to where 
he sat, laying a heavily jewelled hand on his shoulder. 

“Well, you’ve got me/” she said — “And all I’m worth! 
And you ‘ love ’ me, don’t you ? ” 

She laughed a little. 

He looked full at her, — at her worn, hard, artificially got-up 
face, her fashionable frock, and her cold, expressionless eyes. 

“ Oh yes ! ” he answered, drily — “ I ‘ love ’ you ! You know 
I do. We understand each other ! ” 

“ I guess we do ! ” she thought to herself as she left him — 
“And when I’m tired of being called ‘My lady’ or ‘Your 
Grace ’ I’ll divorce him ! And I’ll take care he isn’t a penny 
the richer! There’s always that game to play, and you bet 
the Smart Set know how to play it ! ” 

But of the ways, doings or saying of the Smart Set the 
village of St. Rest knows little and cares less. It dozes peace- 
fully with the sun in its eyes, year in and year out, under 
the shadow of the eastern hills, with its beloved ‘Passon’ 
and now its equally beloved ‘ Passon’s wife,’ as king and queen 
of its tiny governmental concerns, drawing health and peace, 
contentment and tranquillity from the influences of nature, 
unspoilt by contact with the busier and wearier world. ‘ Pas- 
son Walden’s’ wedding-day was the chief great historic event 
of its conscious life. For on that never-to-be-forgotten and 
glorious occasion, the tenantry of Abbot’s Manor, together 
with all the villagers and the school-children were entertained 


Gods Good Man 


521 

at an open-air festival and dance, which lasted all the after- 
noon and evening, on the broad smooth greensward encircling 
the famous 4 Five Sister ’ beeches where bride and bridegroom 
had looked upon each other for the first time. What a high 
tide of simple revelry it was to be sure! Never had the 
delicate tremulous green foliage of the rescued trees waved 
over a happier scene. 4 Many a kiss both odd and even ’ was 
exchanged among lads and lasses at that blithe merry-making, 
— even Cicely and Julian Adderley were not always to be 
found when they were wanted, having taken to ‘composing 
music and poetry together/ which no doubt quite accounted 
for their long rambles together away from all the rest of the 
merry crowd. Mrs. Spruce, with a circle of her gossips round 
her, sat talking the whole livelong day on the ‘ways o’ the 
Lord bein’ past findin’ out/ 

“ For,” said she, “ when Miss Maryllia first come We she 
’adn’t an idee o’ goin’ to hear Passon Walden, an’ sez 1 4 do-ee 
go an’ hear ’im/ an’ she sez — 4 No, Spruce, I cannot, I don’t 
believe in it ’ — an’ I sez to myself, 4 never mind, the Lord ’e 
knows ’is own, which He do, but ’ard as are His ways I never 
did think He’d a’ brought her to be Passon’s wife, — that do 
beat me, though it’s just what it should be, an’ if the Lord 
don’t know what should be why then no one don’t, an’ that 
’minds me o’ when I sent for Passon to see me unpack Miss 
Maryllia’s boxes, he was that careful he made me pick up a 
pair o’ pink shoes what ’ad fell on the floor — ‘Take care o’ 
them/ he sez — Lor ! — now I come to think of it, he was mortal 
struck over them pink shoes ! ” 

And Bainton commenting on general events observed: — 

“Well, I did say once that if Passon were married he’d 
be a fine man spoilt, but Pve altered my mind now! I think 
he’s a fine man full growed at last, like a plant what’s stopped 
a bit an’ suddenly takes a start an’ begins to flower. An’ so far 
as my own line goes, if Missis Walden, bless ’er, comes round 
me talkin’ about the rectory garden, which is to be kep’ up 
just the same as ever, an’ fusses like over the lilac bush what 
he broke a piece off of for her, well! — I did say I’d never 
’ave a petticut round my work — but a pretty petticut’s worth 
looking at, it is reely now ! ” 

So the harmless chatter among the village folks went on, 
and the feasting, dancing and singing lasted long. Chief 
of important personages among all that gathered under the 
old beech-trees was Josey Letherbarrow, — very feeble, — very 
dim of eye, but stout of heart and firm of opinion as ever. 


522 


God’s Good Man 


.Beside him sat Bishop Brent, — with Walden himself and his 
bride, — for from his venerable hands Maryllia had sought 
the first blessing on her marriage as soon as the wedding 
ceremony had ended. 

“ Everything’s all right if we’ll only believe it ! ” he said 
now, looking with a wistful tenderness from one to the other 
— “ Life’s all right — death’s all right 1 I’m sartin sure I’ll 
find everything just as I’ve hoped an’ prayed for’t when 
I gets to th’ other side o’ this world, for I’ve ’ad my ’art’s 
best wish given to me when all ’ope seemed over — an’ that 
was to see Squire’s gel ’appy! An’ she is ’appy! — look at ’er, 
as fresh as a little rose all smilin’ an’ ready to bloom on ’er 
husband’s lovin’ ’art! Ah! Th’ owld Squire would a’ been 
proud to see ’em this bright day! And as for the Lord 
A’mighty He knows what He’s about I tell ye!” and Josey 
nodded his head with great sagacity — “ Some folks think He 
don’t — but He do!” 

The Bishop smiled. 

“Verily I have not found so great a faith — no, not in 
Israel!” — he murmured, as presently he rose and strolled 
away by himself for a while to muse and meditate. Towards 
sunset Walden, going in search of him found him in the rose 
garden, looking at the profuse red clusters of bloom in the 
old French damask border. 

“ How they smile openly to the sun ! ” he said, pointing to 
them, as John approached — “ Like love ! — or faith ! ” 

John was silent a moment. Then he said suddenly — 

“ Are you going over to Borne, Harry ? ” 

“No!” And Brent’s eyes looked full into those of his 
friend, straightly and steadfastly. “ Not now. I will do the 
work appointed for me to the end ! ” 

“ Thank God! ” said Walden, simply. And their hands met 
in a close grasp, thereby sealing a wordless compact, never to 
be broken. 

The sun sank and the moon began to rise. Song and dance 
gradually ceased, and the happy villagers began to disperse, 
and wend their ways homeward. Love was in the air — love 
breathed in the perfume of the flowers— love tuned the throats 
of the passionate nightingales that warbled out their mating 
songs in every hazel copse and from ever acacia bough in the 
Manor woods, and love seemed, as the poet says, to * sit astride 
o’ the moon’ as its silver orb peered over the gables of the 
Manor itself and poured a white shower of glory on the sweet 
face and delicate form of Maryllia, as she stood in the old 


God’s Good Man 


523 


Tudor courtyard, now a veritable wilderness of flowers, with 
her husband’s arm round her, listening to the faint far-off 
singing of the villagers returning to their homes through 
the scented green lanes. 

“ Everyone has been happy to-day ! 99 she said, looking up 
with a smile — “ All the world around us seems to thank God l ” 

“ All the world would thank Him if it could but find what 
we have found!” answered John, drawing her close to his 
heart — “ All it wants, all it needs, both for itself and others, 
for this world and the next, is simply — Love I ” 


THB BUD 





















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